Visions of Betrayal
by Nili
Summary: In the middle of an uneventful summer a message reaches Rivendell: There is something amiss in the camps of the Rangers. Aragorn, Legolas and the twins wish to help, but soon they realise that, this time, the enemy might be much closer than they think.
1. Begun of Nothing

**A/N:**

**Hello everybody!**

**So, here it is, the next story. I have successfully replenished my energies, have managed to find a flat and a flatmate, have moved, selected my courses, managed to find my way back into our kind of university system, battled the Erasmus bureaucracy and painted my room - meaning that I am ready to once again start a story! And here is the first bit!**

**I am trying to post once a week (Tuesdays for now), and promise to do my best to keep to that schedule as long as possible. There might be a pause over Christmas since I will be spending the holidays in Portugal with my mother, but I should be back home before New Year, so don't worry. I won't be too long either way. Other than that, I will give no promises or guarantees - I have learned my lesson! •g•**

**So, without any further ado, I give you this newest piece of madness! Thank you all for your support and your reviews, they did mean a lot to me!**

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**Visions of Betrayal**

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**By:** Nili  
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**Rating:** Well, what do you think? Hmm? Yes, of course it's another PG-13, or T or whatever is the equivalent in FF-net's little code. Surprise, surprise. •g•  
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** Spoilers:** As always, there are some spoilers for my previous stories, especially for the last big one, "A Sea of Troubles". There might be some more for some previous stories, most likely "To Walk in Night" and perhaps minor ones for "An Eye For An Eye" and "The Heart of Men" - those are usually the culprits. They really would be minor, and I am always trying to explain everything as well as possible while I go along. It would probably help to have read "A Sea of Troubles", but I do not think it is necessary. You should be fine either way. Oh, and there are of course the usual spoilers for "The Fellowship of the Ring", "The Two Towers", "The Return of the King" and "The Silmarillion". But those really are unavoidable, I am afraid. Hey, we _are _using Tolkien's playground**.  
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Disclaimer:** I own nothing in Middle-earth, to my never-ending regret. Any recognisable character, setting, place, event and so on belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs. I do not have anyone's permission to use any of the above, but I do so anyway. I am a wicked, evil person, don't tell me. The rest, however (places, characters, crazy wood-elves, demon horses etc.) belongs to me, so please don't kidnap any of my characters. They might be rather happy to get away from me, but I wouldn't like it all that much. Besides, my alter ego would have a fit, and I _am _afraid of her, so... And, finally, this story was written just for fun, and I will most certainly not receive any money for it. It would be a wonderful way to earn my living, but you can't have everything, I guess, least of all vast sums of money. Please do not use any of my original characters (or horses or bats) without asking me first. Thank you.**  
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** Summary: **Peace has once again returned to Rivendell, and all Legolas, Aragorn and the twins have to deal with are terrified elven captains with pre-wedding jitters and insane wood-elves and their pets. As always, however, that rare time of rest and relaxation is cut short when a message reaches the Last Homely House: There is something amiss in the camps of the Dúnedain. Rangers are disappearing, and fear and suspicion are beginning to rear their ugly heads. Aragorn, his brothers and Legolas decide to join the young ranger's people to discover what it going on, but they quickly realise that the disappearances are by far not their only problem. And while they struggle to keep the darkness at bay that the Rangers have been fighting for so many long years, it becomes clear that, this time, the enemy might be closer to them than they might think - and that treachery could be lurking around every corner.

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Series:** This story is, just like all the others, part of my ever-growing mini series that is actually beginning to outgrow the "mini" part. I am not quite sure whether to count "A Taste of Disaster" - or where to count it if I do - but I have decided to include it in the list. My other stories are (in more or less chronological order):

******Straight Paths  
Everlasting  
An Eye For An Eye  
The Heart of Men  
To Walk in Night  
A Sea of Troubles  
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A Taste of Disaster**

This newest proof of me being a disturbed and thoroughly weird person takes place in the summer of III, 2954, roughly two months after the end of ******"A Sea of Troubles"**.**  
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Additional Notes:** So, this is my first story including the rangers. I am really nervous about that, mostly because Tolkien said so little about them, or rather left us with so little "real" information to work with. I will explain my theories concerning their culture, way of life, location of their settlements and so on later on, when it becomes relevant to the story. Since I am always trying to stay true to canon (or as much as possible), I would, as always, be happy about any comments or helpful information. If you spot a mistake or have just found Tolkien's lost letter where he unanimously stated just how many rangers there were or what their organisational structure looked like, please don't hesitate to send me an email. Oh, and I am also firmly determined to finish this story in less than 25 chapters - stop laughing back there! I am really trying this time - the last story really got out of hand.

Universe-like: A long time ago I decided to follow Cassia and Sio's lead and pretend that Gilraen was killed with Arathorn, something that I sometimes regret by now since I try to stick as closely to canon as I can. It wasn't because I don't like her though, no; I started this way because it was easiest. I still think it's hard to integrate her into Rivendell-life realistically, and she's such a complex character that I only now feel confident enough to have a go at writing her. Now it's too late, though. •g• I hope you - and her - will forgive me for this not so little detail.

Because of this and some other smaller things some people have told me that my whole concept is an AU, and I think they are correct, in a way. I totally ignore the fact that Aragorn's supposed to have met Arwen just after he had been told of his heritage (even though, in general, I have nothing against Aragorn/Arwen romances), and I must state here and now that I am aware of the fact that I am not Tolkien and therefore do not even begin to sound like him, something that can only be commented with "Duh!" in my opinion. I could never write as well as he does, which means that you will have to bear with me. The whole Arwen dilemma I intend to solve at the end of this story.

A small note concerning the Elvish used in this story, or, more specifically, the Sindarin: I am a follower of the "mellon nín" variety. If you like the undoubtedly equally correct "mellonen" better, bear with me. As far as I know, you can use both versions. And, last but not least: It is no secret that English is not my first language. It is, in fact, my third, but that's beside the point. •g• So please, let me know when you find a blatant and horrible mistake somewhere. You will, trust me - I usually spot them right after I have posted a chapter and I would have to upload the whole thing again to correct them. Some always manage to sneak their way into my stories no matter how hard I try. Pointing them out to me doesn't bother me at all and really helps to improve my English. Thank you!

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Chapter 1 

It was a beautiful morning that had dawned bright and clear over the quiet and reasonably peaceful valley of Rivendell. The sun was a blinding, pure golden circle in the azure blue sky, there was a slight breeze ruffling the lush, green foliage of the trees and the soft sound of crystal clear water that trickled from rock to rock only accentuated the perfection of the day.

It wasn't anything particularly surprising or noteworthy, mind you; for one, it was the middle of July, which more or less guaranteed bright and beautiful days around these parts, and besides, this was _Rivendell_. No one openly speculated about why the valley was usually spared the worst storms and ravages of the weather that sometimes plagued the rest of this part of Eriador, but more than one elf harboured his or her suspicions.

None of this, however, was on Isál's mind at the moment. That was partly because he had always been a firm supporter of the theory that one shouldn't poke one's nose into things that were none of one's business – especially in Rivendell. Here non-compliance with that very simple rule could get you into more trouble than you could imagine, even if you were one of the people with an active and healthy imagination. For him, the only exception to that rule was Elvynd's business; he simply loved poking his nose into his friend's business, and the fact that the other captain hated it when he did it only served to make it more enjoyable.

But no, it was also because he was having more than his fair share of troubles, and he was far too experienced (or jaded and disillusioned, as other slightly ill-meaning people would say) to be lulled into a false sense of security by something as trivial as a beautiful day. The only positive aspect of all this was that, for once, the reason for said troubles was not his lord's sons and their friends. Well, that was not completely true, of course, since they were always causing some sort of mischief or other, but they weren't more bothersome than usual – which, truthfully, didn't mean a whole lot.

But Isál was nothing if not a fair elf, and so he had to admit that the past few weeks had been fairly quiet. At first, it had been because Estel had still been recuperating from the injuries he had sustained during their last little expedition which most people would call a full-blown catastrophe. It hadn't been the young man's fault, though, or at least not exclusively. Isál had in fact spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out whose fault all of this had been, and still, almost two months after they had returned to Rivendell, he hadn't found a definite answer.

After all, if Lord Erestor hadn't been sent to Aberon, the insane Lady of Donrag wouldn't have felt threatened by Rivendell's apparent close ties to the rivalling city of her town. Maybe then she wouldn't have sent her insane captain (who just happened to be an old enemy of Estel and Prince Legolas who had been out for their blood for months) to ambush Lord Elrond's chief councillor and his escort, even though Isál secretly doubted it – the woman had been as mad as a hatter, after all. Maybe their warriors wouldn't have been slaughtered to the last man – or almost the last man, considering that Elvynd had narrowly survived – and Lord Erestor wouldn't have been taken captive and they wouldn't have thought all of them dead.

Isál shook his head. Maybes and what-if-onlys could be fun, but they were also highly futile. It didn't matter, after all; all of it had happened, and then, when a messenger of Aberon had arrived in Rivendell bearing the news of their escort's deaths and their broken and discarded weapons, everything had spiralled out of control. In his mind, the memory of these days was overshadowed by emotions so powerful and raw that he could barely bear thinking about them. He had thought Elvynd dead, had thought that he had lost the one person in his life he would name brother without question or doubt, and he had been so full of hatred and grief and raw, all-consuming rage that he had lived these weeks like under some sort of heavy veil that filtered out the brighter colours and all but the most solemn sounds.

They had got Lord Erestor back in the end and Elvynd as well, but not before they (and Isál himself was no exception) had all got themselves into a whole lot of trouble. Isál had found out quite a few things, among them that he had neither the patience nor the stomach for diplomacy and political scheming, that one should never travel in the company of Lord Elrond's sons if one wanted to make it out of any kind of place in one piece, and that one should never – ever – infuriate Lord Glorfindel.

The golden-haired elf lord had been devastated by his friend's apparent death, and the fury he had felt for the people responsible for it had not even diminished when he had found out that Lord Erestor was in fact still alive. It had been he who had tracked down Lady Acalith's insane captain and lover, the man who had tortured the dark-haired elf lord and also Lord Elrond's youngest son and Prince Legolas. No one had ever asked him how exactly the man had died, and it certainly wasn't because of a lack of curiosity. Everybody simply agreed that some things simply shouldn't be discussed, and there were also some – those of a more delicate disposition – that were of the opinion that there were things of which they didn't want to know the details.

But somehow, they had managed to extricate themselves from this latest, colossal mess they had once again found themselves in. Lord Elrond, Lord Glorfindel and Lord Elladan had appeared with what had looked like half of Rivendell's warriors and had saved them before they could get their heads cut off (a goal towards which they had been making good progress), and somehow everybody already on the brink of death – namely Estel, Prince Legolas and Lord Erestor – had managed to cling to this life and plane of existence. It was nothing particularly surprising, of course, since all three of them were stubborn to a fault, but for a while, it had looked really, really bad.

Isál shuddered slightly even despite the bright rays of the sun that were bathing him in warming light. These particular memories were almost harder to bear than the memory of having to listen to Aberon's messenger stammer out that he was sorry but that his best friend and all his men were dead, and so he quickly pushed them to the side and into a corner of his mind where he kept all the other unpleasant memories he lacked either the strength or will to deal with.

It was getting rather crowded in that corner.

"He's gone."

The softly spoken words for which he had been waiting for quite some time now brought him back to the present, and even despite his current situation Isál found himself smiling. No matter how much Elvynd annoyed him sometimes, he could not truly be angry with him, not since that horrible day less than three months ago when he had held his sword in his hands and had had to try and convince himself that his friend was really gone.

He had been wrong, though, and Elvynd was just fine, and that brought him back to just why this was such a bad day. With an annoyed sigh, Isál moved until he was right above the spot where he had heard his friend's voice and manoeuvred his body until he could look the other dark-haired elf in the eye. If Elvynd was in any way surprised to see his fellow captain's head appear at such an – unhealthy looking – angle, he did not comment on it.

"Truly?" Isál asked, casting a wary look around. It wasn't that he didn't trust the other elf, but it always paid to be careful.

"Truly," Elvynd echoed, an eyebrow arching amusedly. The action served to highlight the faint scar on the left side of his forehead, the only visible remainder of what had happened to him in the human towns. "Come now, _mellon nín_, do you not trust me? He is nothing but a youngling. There is no way at all he could outsmart _me_."

Now it was Isál's turn to arch an eyebrow.  
"You're naturally modest, aren't you?"

"No, I had to study," Elvynd answered, deadpan.

"You always were too studious by half, Elvynd," the other elf told him. "And besides, he is not a youngling. Why, he must turn twelve _yéni_ soon!"

"He just turned ten," the dark-haired captain told him. "And he is a junior lieutenant in the northernmost patrol. Do you mean to suggest that he could fool me into believing he had left when he hadn't?"

"Who knows?" Isál grumbled. "These young ones can be crafty. I know, because I was one myself not too long ago…"

"…but _I_ was never young, you're right," Elvynd interrupted him, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "I came into this world fully grown and as wise and experienced as I am now. I wouldn't possibly know anything about _being young_."

"…and besides, it's not _your_ blood he is after," Isál finished the sentence, unperturbed by his friend's words. "You do not have the kind of vested interest in this that would convince me of your complete and utter reliance."

"Be reasonable, Isál," the other elf told him, mirth sparkling in his eyes. "He isn't after your blood. He's after your head."

Isál gave him a hard look that was ruined by the position into which he had forced his body.  
"You also studied to exude this particular reassuring air, I see."

"No," Elvynd responded with a grin. "_That_ is a natural talent." When the other captain didn't answer, he shrugged and raised his hands, the grin still on his face. "He is only a boy, Isál, and he would never truly harm you. He is too smart for that, and also too frightened of his sister. So stop hiding and come down here."

Isál looked at him in an exceedingly haughty manner.  
"What gives you the idea that I am hiding?"

Elvynd regarded him in the exact same manner in which he would have regarded an idiot child, or maybe a singing orc.  
"You are dangling from a branch, Isál, ready to disappear back into the foliage should the need arise."

"And your point is?" the other elf asked, giving the tree he was sitting in a flat look. "It's a nice place to rest, contemplate the universe…"

"…and hide from your future brother-in-law," Elvynd finished his sentence. "A thoroughly heroic and noteworthy behaviour."

"For the last time, I am not _hiding _from him!" Isál protested. "I am avoiding him, yes, but that is all."

"He is a boy, Isál, nothing more," the other said, exasperated. It was clear that even his patience was beginning to wear thin. "So would you now please stop being such a complete idiot and…"

"He is an experienced warrior with access to as many sharp and lethal weapons as he'd like!" This time, it was Isál who interrupted Elvynd. "A warrior who is under the erroneous impression that I have 'tainted his sister's honour', or am tainting her honour, or something along these lines." He shook his head and snorted. "Honestly, as if anybody could do anything to Gaerîn that she doesn't want them to do, least of all 'taint her honour'!"

"…come down here before I have to hurt you seriously and repeatedly," Elvynd finished his sentence as if the other elf hadn't spoken. "And please spare me the more intimate details of your relationship with Gaerîn."

Isál, to his consternation, blushed like a young lad or an elf maid, a comparison he wouldn't have found amusing in the slightest.  
"There are no 'intimate details'!" he hissed at the other captain, his hold on the branch next to his head weakening considerably as he only just resisted the urge to wave his hands in agitation. "Are you implying that I would do her the dishonour of … of … of doing anything that might be considered inappropriate before we are wed and…"

"No." Elvynd quickly shook his head. "I would not insult you so, my friend. I know that you have nothing but the deepest love and respect for the Lady Gaerîn, and would never dishonour her, her family or your own by such an act." He grinned at the still very pink elf in front of him. "It doesn't matter what I think, however. And what Dólvorn thinks is not too hard to guess."

"Of course not," Isál grunted, still not making any move to climb down from his lofty but rather safe perch in the tree. "He is quite vocal about his opinions. Especially about his opinion of me."

"Come now, _mellon nín_, do be fair." Elvynd grinned at him. "You did kiss his sister in the courtyard, with the whole of Rivendell watching."

"She kissed me!"

"Unimportant."

"And she is his _older_ sister!"

Elvynd gave him a look that quite clearly said that he was an idiot or at least a socially inept person who, to top everything off, didn't have any brothers himself. Neither did he, in fact, but that was entirely beside the point.

"Gaerîn could be six thousand years old and he five-thousand six-hundred and he would still react like he is now. She is his sister, and that is that."

"Whose side are you on anyway?" Isál demanded to know. "He is overreacting! Valar, if we had at least _done_ something to warrant this kind of persecution I would feel better! This just isn't fair!"

"Whoever told you that life was fair?" Elvynd asked with an arched eyebrow.

"You did."

"I lied," Elvynd told him calmly. "You will have to bear this terrible 'persecution' until the wedding. Which, considering that you two acted like love-sick puppies for weeks until her parents caved in and gave their consent, will be … when, in about sixty days?" He shook his head. "I haven't seen such an inappropriately short engagement in many years."

"You are sounding like my mother," Isál accused him sourly. "And her mother. And her grandmother, and her aunts, and…"

Elvynd shot him a teasing grin.  
"Well, they are right, you know. An engagement between two people of your high social rank is expected to last at least…"

"I know very well what period of time is expected," the younger elf ground out. "And I would go insane with impatience and desire…"

"Oh, please spare me!"

"…for her company if I had to wait that long, and so would Gaerîn." Isál looked at his friend accusingly, as if he was being an unsympathetic, bull-headed idiot on purpose. Objectively speaking, he might have been on to something. "And the wedding is in sixty-five days," he corrected Elvynd, "including today."

"You know," Elvynd told his friend thoughtfully, "I liked you a lot better when you went red in the face and started stuttering every time you saw her."

"You're never happy."

"Oh, but I will be." The older elf shook his head. "As soon as you two are married and you stop getting on my nerves like this."

"Tell that to Dólvorn, not to me. He is making me hid... avoid him all the time."

"No one is making you do anything. Now get down here."

Isál gave him a calculating look.  
"Just how are things going between you and Gaerîn's lovely cousin, by the way?"

This time, Elvynd blushed until the scar on his forehead showed white against the flushed skin, but he would not be deterred.  
"That, my friend, is none of your business. Unlike you two, we are private people. Get down."

"You know," Isál began, "that does not sound convincing. And besides, I do not trust you to protect me if worst comes to worst."

"You can protect yourself," Elvynd ground out. "You are a fully grown elf, a captain of our lord's forces, who will _undoubtedly_ soon become a father."

"Elvynd!" Isál exclaimed, looking scandalised.

"What?" The other elf ask, his face a picture of innocence.

Realising that it was hopeless, Isál shook his head.  
"I would still feel better if Dólvorn was a painter. Brushes are tickly more than lethal."

"Isál!" Elvynd exclaimed, his patience finally spent. "Down! Now!"

"What am I, a dog?" the younger elf asked, offended.

Elvynd clenched his teeth and cracked the knuckles of his hands, apparently more than willing to demonstrate to his friend just what he was going to _be_ soon, namely a bloody heap on the ground, but before he could say anything, soft footsteps could be heard behind them. The two of them turned around, Isál clearly preparing to blend back into the foliage of the tree at the first sign of red hair, and almost groaned out aloud. Elvynd also closed his eyes and shook his head. This was just his kind of luck, wasn't it?

A moment later, he opened his eyes again and gave the approaching figures a half-sketched bow. He had been raised to be polite, after all, and besides, if he had learned one thing in the past, it was that these half-elves and anyone who was in any way connected to them were devious and possessed long memories. If you wronged or slighted or disrespected them in any way – and sometimes even if you only thought about wronging or slighting or disrespecting them in any way –, they remembered. And later they would get you for it.

"My lords," he greeted the approaching elves. Isál didn't say anything and moved as to disappear back into the foliage, but Elvynd glared at him and the younger elf halted in mid-motion. If he had to be here and face his sometimes-slightly-unstable young lords, then Isál didn't get to back out either.

It took the others only a few more heartbeats to reach them, and Elvynd did his best not to show any surprise when he saw that there were only three of them, not four or five. He didn't know if they did it because they believed in safety in numbers or because they liked annoying people in groups, but fact was that they had taken to travelling in packs. Like wolves or, Elvynd decided wickedly, Wood-elves.

"Elvynd," one of the three said congenially and with a broad smile. "How are you on this fine day?"

If the smile on Elladan's face wouldn't immediately have put him on edge, that far-too-innocent greeting would have. It was never a good thing when one of the twins smiled at you like this, and doubly so when they were together. More likely than not, they were planning something you really didn't want to know about and were only looking for a way to drag you into their schemes.

But not him, Elvynd thought almost wildly. Oh no, he was on to them!

"Very well, thank you," he answered as politely as he could. "We," he added, dragging a very unwilling Isál into the conversation, who shot him a deadly glare in return, "are merely enjoying the sunny morning."

"Ah, yes, you are off duty until tomorrow, aren't you?" Elrohir chimed in. If anything, he looked even more innocent than his brother, something that made Elvynd's blood run cold. "I would assume that the two fairest healers Rivendell has to offer are more than happy about that."

Elvynd gave him an insincere smile, only just stopping himself from telling the twin that all this was none of his business and that he would clout the next person who commented on his relationship with Gelydhiel, Gaerîn's kinswoman.  
"You would have to ask them, really. My lord."

"I don't know," the third elf said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't go quite that far to acquire information. Neither the Lady Gaerîn nor her lovely cousin are as bad as Hithrawyn, my king's master healer, but … well, they _are_ healers."

Isál gave the silver-haired wood-elf a thoroughly insincere smile.  
"We are quite aware of that."

Celylith raised his hands in placation, but before he could say anything more that could upset the two captains (he was a Silvan elf after all, and just like his prince he loved riling Noldor whenever he could), Elladan interrupted the two of them, a teasing glint in his grey eyes.  
"I just remembered; I think we met Lady Gaerîn's younger brother not too long ago. He was looking for you, I believe. Has he found you?"

"No," Isál said curtly. "And he won't, at least not until he has calmed down a little."

"What did you do now?" Elrohir asked, a big grin on his face.

"That's the worst part of it: Nothing!" Isál exclaimed. Elvynd hung his head, sensing a new round of complaints coming up. "Yesterday evening we were taking a stroll through the gardens, and just like this," he snapped his fingers, "that red-haired menace appears and accuses me of knavishly abducting his sister with the intent of tainting her honour even further than I already have! He is completely overreacting!"

The twins exchanged a sympathetic look. It was a brother's right to ensure that his sister's honour remained untouched, of course, but Dólvorn was overdoing it just the tiniest bit. If his sister's fiancé had been anyone but Isál and if his sister had been anyone but Gaerîn, they might even have understood him – after all, Arwen was still unwed and would – if they had anything to say about it – remain that way until they had made sure that any prospective suitor possessed a completely immaculate character, only the best of intentions and a high level of self-control. But Isál was far too honourable to even think about doing anything inappropriate and Gaerîn was … well, Gaerîn. It would take quite a bit of courage to force any kind of unwanted attention upon her.

"So it would seem," Elrohir admitted, truly beginning to feel for Isál's plight. Even a blind man would see how much in love the two of them were, and considering that the wedding date was already set, Dólvorn was only making everyone's lives miserable, nothing more. "Perhaps I could talk to Glorfindel, see if he cannot assign him to a temporary scouting mission north for a few weeks."

"Could you?" Isál asked, dark-blue eyes shining. "I would forever be grateful, my lord!"

"Just where are the prince and Estel?" Elvynd quickly interrupted his friend before he could promise the twins something truly valuable, like his soul or his firstborn son. Knowing the twins, they would come to collect sooner or later. "It is rare to see you alone," he added, with a pointed look in Celylith's direction. The wood-elf possessed the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. Elvynd was speaking the truth, after all, it was a rare thing to find Legolas without Celylith or the other way around. "I trust that they are well?"

He was actually quite sure that they were well since Lord Elrond had – with the cooperation of Lord Erestor and Glorfindel and under a lot of pretences – successfully prevented them from going anywhere where they could possibly get into trouble. Then again, King Thranduil's son and Lord Elrond's youngest were quite capable of finding or creating blood, chaos and mayhem even here in Rivendell.

The three older elves exchanged an unreadable look. That wasn't completely true, of course, Elvynd corrected himself; he did know how to read parts of it and didn't like it in the slightest. The three were up to no good, and he was willing to bet _his_ firstborn son that it was somehow connected to Estel and his wood-elven friend. He was also willing to bet that, this time, the two of them were the victims of whatever scheme the three elves in front of them had set into motion.

"I am sure they will turn up here sooner or later," Celylith finally answered for all of them with a nonchalant gesture that looked in fact anything but.

"They aren't stupid," Elrohir agreed with a nod. "They should find our trail soon enough."

"I don't know." Elladan shook his head. "They were rather … preoccupied the last time we saw them. They might not turn up for a while."

Elvynd and Isál exchanged a weary look. The last thing they needed was to be involved in another one of their personal jokes or vendettas or whatever they were. Isál had Gaerîn's brother to worry about, and, well, Gelydhiel's father who had been curiously uninterested in his daughter's doings until now was beginning to become the tiniest bit suspicious. All in all, if there was something they didn't need, it was being drawn into another episode including blood, pain and chaos. They had more than enough worries already.

"Do I want to know what you did?" Isál asked tiredly. For someone who had been hiding in a tree the better part of the day, he managed to look amazingly like a parent who was talking to particularly strange, difficult children.

The three other elves shared a quick look before they started to grin.  
"No, I don't think so," Elladan finally told them.

"You will find out soon enough anyway," Celylith added. There was a rather malicious light shining in his eyes that made his dark-blue eyes look even darker.

"So, what made you turn on your prince, my lord?" Isál asked innocently, dangling his legs over the branch on which he was sitting. "Does it have anything to do with the bat?"

The twins shot the young captain a look that would have frozen lava on the spot, and Elvynd, too, glared at his friend. It was common knowledge that Lord Celylith was a little strange – he was a wood-elf, after all – and that he possessed a rather unnatural love for terrible and wild creatures. Among his pets had been a warg cub, a giant spider baby and a huge ox from Rhûn, and on their last journey the silver-haired elf had picked up a small, black bat. It was quite funny, actually, since Prince Legolas kept trying to order him to get rid of him and because Elrohir just detested bats in general, but until now the wood-elf had managed to remain steadfast. Where he was hiding the creature was anyone's bet, though, and even despite extensive searches neither Isál nor Elvynd had managed to locate it.

"'It' has a name," Celylith told the dark-haired elf, his eyes narrowing and his voice dropping to arctic levels. "'The bat' is a she, and is called Lúthien."

A splutter could be heard behind him, and Celylith turned around, just in time to watch Elrohir turn very red very fast. The younger twin favoured him with a look he usually reserved for annoying councilmen and attacking orcs.  
"I thought we had talked about this, Celythramirion. If you ever again speak the name of my great-great-grandmother when you are referring to that … thing, I will have to hurt you."

"It's not as if you can decide what other people do with your ancestors' names, Elrohir," the younger elf protested. "There are dozens, if not hundreds of she-elves who are called Lúthien, and I don't see you bothering _them_."

"Oh, but I bet he would like to," Elladan interjected in a singsong voice in a not uncommon display of brotherly disloyalty.

Elrohir ignored his twin and only continued glaring at the wood-elf.  
"Exactly, you lunatic: She-elves. She-elves, not bats!"

"I fail to see the difference."

"No wonder you're neither married nor betrothed."

"Neither are you," Celylith retorted. "Actually," he went on, "neither of you is."

"See what you have done?" Elvynd mumbled softly so that only Isál could hear him.

The other captain nodded mutely, his eyes glued to the three bickering elves in front of him. Elvynd couldn't blame him. No matter how often he witnessed this, it never ceased to amaze him. It was rather like an accident, with broken bones and blood and everything: No matter how much you wanted to, morbid curiosity just didn't allow you to look away.

Before either of them had to decide what to do now – there weren't all that many options except making their escape or pouring a bucket of cold water over them –, a triumphant shout could be heard. It came from somewhere over to their left, from the direction of the main entrance to this part of the gardens.

"Ha! Keen eyes of the Wood-elves, indeed! They went this way!"

"I could have told you that minutes ago if you had only allowed _me_ to look, Estel," another voice spoke up, sounding decidedly amused. It also sounded quite a lot like the Prince of Mirkwood. "It is a clever thing to do, going into the gardens. Remind me to tell them that before I kill them."

"I will do my best. Even though I have to tell you that homicidal thoughts tend to interfere with my memory."

"Then think happy thoughts, ranger. Think about how they will look when you slowly close your hands around their necks and squeeze … and squeeze…"

"You're right." Aragorn sounded calmer in a second. "Those _are_ happy thoughts."

"I am always glad to help," Legolas said. "Even though they are, technically speaking, also homicidal thoughts."

"Oh, not here. In Rivendell they are rather normal. Most elves here have had them at least once when thinking about my dear brothers."

"That I do believe. Let's find them, shall we?"

"After you, _mellon nín_."

It was silent after that, but both Elvynd and Isál knew that that wouldn't last for long. Estel knew Rivendell like the back of his hand, and even though Prince Legolas was a wood-elf, he wasn't completely incompetent. The two of them would quickly figure out whereto the twins and Lord Celylith had disappeared.

Obviously that was something that the three elves in front of them had realised as well.

"Uhm, I think we should go," the silver-haired elf spoke up first, shooting nervous glanced about himself. Elvynd felt how his tension even increased. If the Silvan elf was this anxious, he _really _didn't want to know what the three of them had done to Estel and the prince. "No, I _really _think we should go."

"A tactical retreat." Elladan nodded. "A good plan, for a wood-elf."

"Oh, as a Noldo you would know everything about tactical retreats, wouldn't you," Celylith retorted, even though there was no real venom in his voice.

"Quiet," Elrohir said. "Let's go." He turned and smiled at the two silent captains. "Elvynd. Isál. It was so nice to see you again."

Elladan and Celylith didn't echo the sentiment, either because they were too busy turning around and all but rushing off or because they couldn't access just the same amount of diplomatic insincerity as the younger twin. Elrohir turned to follow them but then looked back at the other two elves, a very dark glint in his eyes.

"You did not see us." It didn't sound pleading, but rather was a statement full of dark promises of what could and would happen if the two captains would disagree.

Elvynd and Isál shook their heads so quickly that the bones in their necks cracked violently. A moment later the twins and Celylith were gone, hurrying down the path into the direction of the courtyard amongst whispers of hiding places and strategies.

Isál watched them go for a moment before he turned to his friend, his eyes wide and more scared-looking than they had ever looked during any of his confrontations with Gaerîn's brother. They grew only wider when they heard the unmistakable sounds of two people who were drawing closer; one treading so quietly that it was almost impossible to hear him, even for an elf, the other one treading more loudly, but still so silently that he might have passed for one of the Firstborn.

"Not a word about this," he hissed at Elvynd who couldn't help but look over his shoulder in a way that reminded the younger elf of a fawn trying to spy the big bad wolf it knew had to be hiding somewhere close-by. "Not one!"

"What do you think I am, suicidal?" the other captain whispered back. "We saw nothing, heard nothing and know nothing."

"Exactly." Isál nodded his head fervently. "It's the only way to surviv… Estel!"

Elvynd whirled around, realising that he looked like an elfling caught with a hand in a jar with biscuits. Sure enough, he came face to face with Lord Elrond's human son, and as soon as he saw him, he understood why Isál had sounded like he had, namely torn between surprised, shocked, frightened and impossibly amused.

Surprise Elvynd could have predicted, because the whole of Rivendell knew that Estel could be sneaky when he wanted to be, and that he could be almost as quiet as an elf. Even though it was virtually impossible to sneak up on an elf, the boy had managed to surprise his fair share of Firstborn over the last few years, ever since some intelligent individual (Elvynd suspected that Lord Elrond or Lord Glorfindel had had something to do with that) had decided that he had to be instructed in stealth and woodcraft. Fright he also understood, since they had been talking to the twins and Lord Celylith just a few seconds ago and were only a step away from being involved in yet another catastrophe. Shock, he decided, he should also have expected, because they just had been talking about Estel and the prince and it was never nice to be caught talking behind someone's back, especially when that someone belonged to the immediate family of Lord Elrond Half-elven.

And amusement … well, that he understood a second after laying eyes on the ranger and his Silvan friend.

Elvynd narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side, studying the elf and the ranger in front of him more closely. The two of them were … red, there was no other word for it. They were covered with some sort of red liquid from head to toe, looking very much as if they had just slaughtered half of the Misty Mountains' goblin population all by themselves. Even their faces were almost uniformly red, something that looked highly dangerous. At least Elvynd hoped that their faces were red because of the liquid and not because they were very, very angry. Then again, how one could not be angry when looking like this, he could truly not tell.

For a moment, Elvynd was virtually rendered speechless. Isál seemed to have similar problems, his mouth opening and closing in astonishment. Even though Isál was his best friend, Elvynd had to admit that the younger elf looked ridiculously like a very surprised fish out of water.

Before either of them could shake off his surprise, Aragorn raised a dark-red eyebrow, as if daring the two elves to laugh or show any other signs of amusement, and smiled at them. His teeth looked impossibly white against the dyed skin, and even despite the man's glare Elvynd had a hard time controlling the quivering corners of his mouth.

"Isál. Elvynd." Aragorn nodded at them, the smile still on his lips. Elvynd noted absent-mindedly that the man was using the exact same, fake smile his elven brother had given them only minutes earlier. If he found it strange that Isál was sitting in a tree, looking like a frightened, overgrown squirrel, he did not comment on it. "A good day to you."

"Gruh."

Three pairs of eyes turned to Isál, who had obviously recovered from his shock-induced muteness more quickly than his friend. Being able to speak and being able to articulate words were two different things, however. Aragorn and Legolas were staring coldly at the dark-haired captain while Elvynd, standing to their right and just out of their line of sight (or so he hoped), was shaking his head frantically. Isál didn't seem to notice any of this and only kept staring at the two beings in front of him, his eyes wide and incredulous.

"Kuh. You ... ked. Red."

"Excuse me?"

It was the first time that Prince Legolas raised his voice, prompting Elvynd to look at him. He looked even … redder than Estel, if such a thing was even possible. While the ranger's dark hair looked only darker and … well, redder, Prince Legolas' once fair hair had taken on a dark pink colour that didn't look becoming at all. He was also wearing that particular expression that his father, King Thranduil, was known for, namely the one that quite eloquently told everybody that the next person who only _looked _at him the wrong way would be messily dismembered.

Isál, apparently noticing the danger he was in, closed his eyes for a moment and composed himself. He took a deep breath and opened them again, the corners of his mouth quivering traitorously when he looked at the other elf and the ranger.

"You. Are red," he finally managed to bring out, not being able to tear his eyes away from their faces. "Very red."

Legolas and Aragorn exchanged a long-suffering look, as if they had heard that particular statement more than once already today. Elvynd was quite certain that they had indeed.

"We noticed," Legolas told him flatly. Every single one of his noble Sindarin ancestors seemed to stare out of his eyes, and in an irrational moment Elvynd couldn't help but wonder why it wasn't getting crowded in there. "It is rather hard to miss. I must applaud your keen powers of observation, Captain. I…"

"Don't," Aragorn interrupted him. "Don't start another one of your Silvan-Elves-are-superior speeches. You and Celylith are becoming unbearable, I swear."

"But we are, Estel."

"Of course," the man smiled at his friend in a thoroughly unconvincing manner and reached out with a red hand to pat Legolas' equally red forearm. "Keep telling yourselves that, and, if you're lucky, someone else might believe you in … oh, about ten or fifteen millennia."

Elvynd couldn't help but stare at them with hopeful eyes. If they got into one of their Noldor-versus-Silvan Elves debates, Isál and he just might get out of this more or less intact. They weren't quite as bad as Prince Legolas and the twins, but Estel was quite aware of his Noldorin heritage and more than loyal to his adoptive family's predominant origins.

"What delusions you Noldor entertain," Legolas said with an insolent grin that would have infuriated even the most even-tempered elf. "Be that as it may, we can discuss this later." Elvynd groaned inwardly. It seemed that the two wouldn't be easily distracted, Eru damn their annoying souls. The wood-elf turned towards them and fixed him and Isál with a penetrating look. "Did either of you see Elladan or Elrohir? Or," he added almost in a growl, "that disloyal captain of my father's?"

Elvynd exchanged a quick look with Isál who was trying to blend back into the tree, looking like an extremely large lizard. No matter how annoyed and anxious he was at the moment, Elvynd found that he couldn't blame him for it.  
"Uhm … why?" he finally asked not very eloquently.

Aragorn gave him a look that clearly stated that he considered him a bumbling idiot.  
"I would have thought that to be obvious," he said, gesturing at himself and his friend.

Isál once again shuffled forward a bit, his interest caught despite himself.  
"How did they…?"

"I will not discuss this," Legolas said, silver-blue eyes hard and flinty. Next to him, Estel nodded firmly, and Elvynd resigned himself to the fact that they would probably never find out. If Estel didn't want to talk, he didn't, and the same went for the prince. The two of them were just like their fathers and almost as bad as Lord Glorfindel. "Not with you, and not with any other of the sixty-three people who have already asked me that question today."

"An ambush." Elvynd nodded sympathetically. Having grown up with a handful of distant cousins and a best friend who seemed to think that they had to put the twins' pranks to shame, he was no stranger to being jumped from behind by someone. "You should have known better, Estel. It has been too quiet lately."

"I _was _expecting something like this," the man said sourly, rubbing a hand over his face. The action didn't dislodge even the tiniest speck of paint. "And if Legolas here," he shot the elf a scathing look, "wouldn't have thought it necessary to upset Celylith so that he joined forces with the demons posing as my brothers, my usual level of vigilance would have been enough. This way, however…"

"Oh, do _not _blame this on me, _dúnadan_," Legolas said, glaring right back at him. "_I _didn't pour a vat of red dye on us! Your brothers did; Celylith only helped a little. You can count yourself lucky that I do not hold you accountable in their stead! And what do you mean, I 'upset' Celylith? I told him to get rid of that bat, something of which you were in fervent agreement, if I recall correctly!

"No, you told him that if he didn't get rid of the bat in the next two days, you would feed it to Rashwe."

Rashwe was Legolas' white steed, a large, white, beautiful creature that also happened to be thoroughly evil. Most people would find it perfectly understandable and possible to imagine that it would eat anything from a troll to a mouse. It was mistrustful of anyone it encountered but now seemed to be concentrating its malicious attentions on the twins, much to everyone's amusement.

Well, everyone but the twins', that was.

Aragorn wrinkled his brow and continued.  
"Honestly, I might have done the same. Threatening somebody with Rashwe is just too much."

"For the last time, he's a nice, perfectly normal horse. I truly do not understand why everybody here is acting as if he was a Nazgûl in disguise."

"Because it _is _a Nazgûl in disguise. Only with, presumably, more legs." That was Elvynd, mumbling the words so softly that they were almost impossible to understand.

Legolas ignored his words, something that was a seriously bad sign, since he usually took such comments personally.  
"Enough of this. Have you seen one of them?"

Isál looked at his best friend and the way his mouth was opening and closing helplessly.  
"Shouldn't … shouldn't you try to wash this … paint … off first? You know, before it … stains?" he came to Elvynd's rescue, not even really knowing what he was saying. He was making it up as he went, and wasn't sure if it even made sense.

Aragorn gave him a look so cold that Isál involuntarily shivered a little.  
"What," he asked in a far too calm voice, "do you think we have been doing for the past two hours?"

"Oh." It was all that Isál said. There really wasn't much more to say.

"So, have you seen them?" Aragorn repeated, sounding definitely annoyed now. "You know that I will take it as a personal insult if you lie to me, don't you?"

"Me? Lie to you, Estel?" Elvynd asked, chuckling nervously. "Whatever would give you that idea? I must say, I am offended."

"No, you're not," the man told him curtly. "You _have _seen them. Where are they?"

"Well, not here," Isál spoke up with his most charming smile. Unfortunately it was lost on both Aragorn and Legolas. "We don't know where they went."

"Ah!" Legolas exclaimed triumphantly. "So they _were _here! Which way did they go?"

Whatever small hope Elvynd might have had to escape this situation relatively unscathed and, more importantly, uninvolved, died right then and there. He exchanged a look with Isál, saw the same resignation in his eyes, and hung his head.

"They left the gardens a few minutes ago, heading for the courtyard. They heard you coming and decided that absence was the better part of valour."

Aragorn and Legolas looked very pleased with the information, which prompted Isál to speak up. If he had to be miserable, then these two had no right to look so pleased.

"But since they knew you were coming, they also knew that you would find us here. They knew that, since we knew where they went, we would eventually tell you, so now that you know, you should be aware that they know as well." Isál grinned, as if what he had said had made perfect sense. "It seems that everybody knows everything else, so if I were you I would be careful where I followed them. They know you are coming, after all."

"But we know that they know that we know," Legolas told the dark-haired captain calmly. He surely didn't do him the favour of looking miserable. "So we have the advantage and can surprise them, for a change."

"How wonderful," Elvynd said faintly. "I wish you the best of luck, my lord."

Legolas nodded benevolently.  
"Thank you." He turned to Aragorn. "Do you still have it, Strider?"

Aragorn produced a small, leather bottle with the same flourish a hobbit might have used to pull out the world's largest mushroom. Elvynd resolutely refused to think about what might be in said bottle.  
"But of course, _mellon nín_. Happy thoughts, remember?"

"Indeed," Legolas grinned at him. "Shall we?"

Aragorn merely returned the grin but turned back to Elvynd and Isál before he followed the fair-haired elf down the winding path.  
"Thank you very much, my friends. You were very helpful."

Then he turned around and ran after the wood-elf who was already disappearing around a bend of the path, moving in the very purposeful matter of someone with a mission. Most likely a mission that involved unknown liquids, revenge, blood and mayhem, but that was another thing Elvynd and Isál resolutely refused to think about.

Isál was listening to the fading footsteps and just thinking that he had been right in thinking that just because it was a sunny day it didn't mean that it would really _be _a nice day when Elvynd turned towards him, looking up at him with serious eyes.

"We are completely doomed, aren't we?"

Isál couldn't help but smile at his best friend.  
"Oh Eru, yes."

Elvynd only nodded calmly and leaned back against the tree Isál was still sitting in. Perhaps he should join him, he mused absent-mindedly, it had to be (at least marginally) safer than being on the ground. It was silent for a while, even in the courtyard and beyond – the proverbial calm before the storm, of that Elvynd was very sure –, but then Isál shrugged, quite clearly accepting his fate.

"Well, it has been far too quiet lately."

A loud shout could suddenly be heard, cutting through the quiet morning air like a hot knife through butter. To Elvynd it sounded either like a troll someone had just trodden onto its foot or like a Nazgûl's fell beast that had twisted an ankle. Both possibilities sounded far more attractive than what it most likely really was.

"Not anymore," he said glumly.

"Ah, come now, my friend." Isál grinned at him in that strange, fond way he had been using ever since Aberon. "At least it can't get much worse."

That wasn't entirely true, of course, but there honestly was no way either of them could have foreseen it. Not before long they would wish for vats of red paint or annoying young lords or insane future brother-in-laws.

Unbeknownst to the two young captains, it would indeed get far, far worse, for all of them and a lot of other people.

But that, as they would have agreed, was another Rivendell rule for you.

**  
**

More than twelve hours later, a few hundred miles removed and seemingly a whole world away, a campfire was crackling noisily. If was, as every objective observer would have agreed, doing so in an exceedingly and inappropriately merry way, even though there was no such observer present. It was not the only fire in the vicinity, there were others visible not too far away, lighted after no particular order or fashion.

There were dark shapes just outside of the fire's reach, moving with surprising speed and surety through the darkness that spoke of sharp eyes and long experience. The sounds that accompanied these movements didn't seem to fit to that; there were grunts and growls and other, half-articulated sounds whose horrific, terrifying effects were only amplified by the darkness.

Close to the fire in the centre of what looked like a chaotically pitched camp a single tree stood, the bark darkened and charred as if someone had purposely tried to set fire to it. The crown was still lush and green, though, a stark contrast to its surroundings that was so deeply wrong that most people would have been hard-pressed to say why exactly.

There was a single figure sitting slumped against the darkened trunk, hauntingly lit by the dancing flames of the campfire and looking, on first sight, as if he was merely asleep or resting. That impression was quickly dispelled by the thick dark ropes that bound him to the tree, winding around his torso and arms and even around his throat. The man's head hung forward limply, long, dark, blood-encrusted strands of hair hiding his face. His clothes and cloak were ripped and torn, covered in blood and mud, and where skin showed through the ruined clothing, it was bruised and cut and bloody.

The light the fire cast onto the bound man was briefly obscured when another figure stepped closer before it moved to the right, out of the flames' direct light. It was another man, tall and covered with a long, dark cloak whose hood covered his face, hiding his face and identity as effectively as any mask he could have worn. For a second, he only looked down on the bound man, but then he crouched down in front of him, his head cocking slightly to the side as he studied him closely.

With a movement that looked curious more than anything else, he finally reached out and tangled his hand in the other man's hair, using it to pull his head up. When the bound man's head connected with the tree at his back, he unconsciously let out a weak, pain-filled moan, his head moving feebly to escape the painful hold the other had on him. A moment later, blood-encrusted eyelids opened, revealing clouded, almost fever-bright grey eyes.

The prisoner only looked at the hooded man for a moment before he allowed his eyes to close again, his lips pressing together tightly in either an attempt to stop any sounds of pain that might escape him or to prevent him from saying something that was on the tip of his tongue. The man who still had a firm grip of his head didn't react to that, but when he spoke, a grin was clearly audible in his voice.

"No, no, no, we'll have none of that. You have slept long enough now, I think; it's time for you to do some talking."

At that, the other man's eyes opened again, and for a moment, there was incredulity and hatred amongst the pain and confusion. The hooded man only waited for a moment before he tightened his grip on the other's hair and slammed his head against the tree behind him. The prisoner didn't utter a sound, but his bruised face turned even paler, taking on the colour of dirty-grey snow.

"Now, I am beginning to lose my patience," the other man said, his voice calm and controlled and almost sounding friendly. Almost. "We have been dancing this particular dance for two days now. Just answer my question and all this will be over, I promise."

His prisoner only looked at him with wide, blank eyes before bloody lips twisted into something that, in a different life, could have been called a smile.  
"Your promises … mean … nothing, _móradan_."

Behind them, a sudden hissing sound could be heard, and, for the briefest moment, it looked as if dozens of yellow eyes focussed on them. The hooded man merely raised a hand and the sounds subsided, even though the feeling of anger and hatred and a darkness so much more deadly than that that was surrounding them did not lessen.

One could almost see the smile when the man released his prisoner's hair, almost causing the other's head to fall forward once more. It was clear that he hardly possessed the strength to raise his head, too weakened by the past two days of pain and fear and the sort of darkness that wants to swallow you whole.

"Oh, but they do," the hooded man says coolly. "They can mean the difference between ending this tonight and two more days of it." He cocked his head to the side again calculatingly. "Maybe I could even make you last three. Wouldn't that be entertaining?"

The other man didn't answer. Whether it was because his body was betraying him or he simply tried to drift off to someplace else, but his eyes once again began to drift closed. The hooded man didn't take very kindly to that and, without saying anything, calmly placed his fingers over a spot on his prisoner's left side that was already wet and glistening with blood and pushed.

The reaction was almost instantaneous. No matter how weakened and close to giving up his body was, this pain did register in the bound man's brain almost without delay. His body convulsed as agony blossomed in his middle, ineffectively fighting against the bonds that bound him to the tree as a chocked-off scream of pain was ripped from his lips. The other man only removed his fingers, now wet with blood, when his prisoner's struggles had died down and he was hanging in his bounds, shuddering convulsively.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" the hooded man said almost pleasantly as he sat back on his haunches, studying the other man with the same intensity with which a cat would study a mouse. "Tell me what I want to know."

The bound man didn't even lift his head; he most likely didn't possess the strength to do anything but try and force as much oxygen as possible into his lungs. His voice, however, was strong and calm and utterly uncompromising when he answered.  
"Never."

The other man's only answer was reaching once again for his wounded side and burrowing his fingers in the torn flesh. This time, only a groan found its way past the wounded man's clenched teeth, but when the other man removed his hand a minute later and once again jerked his head up by the hair, his face was so bloodless that it looked almost ghostly in the flickering firelight. There was fresh blood on his lips, and the old and new bruises and abrasions on his face looked positively obscene against the paleness of his skin.

"Never," his captor told him in a silky tone of voice, "can be a long, long time. You of all people should know that."

The bound man smiled that horrific parody of a smile once more, showing bloody teeth that gleamed in the fire's light. There was relief on his face, and a strange, faint hint of triumph in his eyes as he looked at the other man.  
"Not … going to last … three days."

"No," the hooded man replied calmly. "No, you won't. You are going to die, that is something both you and I can agree on, I think." He leaned forward a bit, up to the point where one would have thought to be able to see his features, but the oval of his face remained dark and shadowed. "The only question is when you will die, and how. That should be of a certain interest to you, no?"

The dark-haired man swallowed thickly, painfully, before he focussed eyes that were clouded and dark with pain on the dark hood in front of his eyes.  
"What will happen … w-will happen. My fate is … in the … h-hands of the Powers."

The other man shook his head in mock sadness, and there was a mocking grin in his voice when he answered.  
"Not at the moment, no. Right now, not your almighty Lords hold your life in their hands, but me."

"Not … almighty," the wounded man protested weakly. There was a strange detachment in his voice, as if he was barely aware of where he was, pain and blood loss finally beginning to catch up with him. "Almighty and … all-knowing is only Ilúvatar, father of the _Eruhíni_."

The hissing, malicious sounds once again rose up behind them like the tide washing against the shore, and this time, it did not die down so quickly. Movements were barely visible just outside of the firelight and the ever-present feeling of malicious hatred only seemed to grow stronger, yellowish eyes seemingly gleaming in the shadows. The other man paid all that no heed, but he did not release his prisoner's head.

"My … friends here are beginning to become impatient. They have been waiting for two days now, and you have not been providing the kind of entertainment they are used to." He leaned forward a little. "They are not happy. I, however, have a vested interest in _keeping _them happy. I just might indulge them a little."

The bound man coughed a little, bright red blood appearing at the corners of his mouth and bubbling obscenely as he tried to breathe. His captor seemed to look at the blood for a moment before he sat back a little, his left fist still tangled in the other's dark hair.

"It can all end tonight. Tell me what I want to know, and I will end it quickly and painlessly. Do it not, and I will let my friends do as they wish." He chuckled darkly. "That is not a way you want to go, you know that as well as I do."

"Empty … threats," the other man brought out, his chest heaving as he tried to draw in enough oxygen.

"Empty?" the hooded man asked, his right hand ghosting over the other's torso to burrow itself in a deep slash up on his shoulder. The other man's body arched with the pain, a groan turning into something like a scream when the long fingers twisted ever deeper. Finally, he let go, the invisible smile once again returning to his voice. "Ah, I don't think so. You have seen what they can do – many times, I believe. I _will _let them have you."

The prisoner's eyes that had slid closed as the newest wave of pain had washed over him slowly opened once more, blinking as he tried to get his surroundings into focus. He looked at his captor silently for a moment or two, unaware of or ignoring his body's trembling fight for air, and a sudden calmness seemed to lay itself over his stern, ravaged features.

"Do what … you … will." Ignoring the pain the grip that the other man had on his hair must have caused him, he lifted his chin slightly, grey eyes hard and calm. "I … will never b-betray … my people, least of … of all to a coward … who is too af-afraid to show his face."

The other man was silent for a moment, studying his prisoner's face and the unwavering determination in his eyes. Finally he sighed, shaking his hooded head slightly as if saddened.

"No," he agreed quietly. "I had never really thought you would."

With no hesitation and a movement almost too fast to follow, he drew his dagger and slit the bound man's throat. And later, when everything was over and the dark-haired man hung dead in his bonds, he reached out and removed the brooch that pinned the dead man's cloak upon his left shoulder.

The brooch, shaped like a rayed star, had survived everything almost unstained and unblemished, and as the hooded man held it in his hands, turning it over thoughtfully, it blinked and gleamed in the oppressing darkness, and no real star could have been more beautiful.

And that, perhaps, was the most dreadful thing of all.

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TBC...**

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_mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
yéni (pl. of yén) (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
dúnadan (S.) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
móradan (S.) - 'Man of Darkness' - a rather impolite thing to say to any human, especially to one of of the Edain  
Eruhíni (S.) - 'Children of Eru', the Children of Ilúvatar. A term for two races of Arda: Elves and Men_

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So, and it's starting again... Will they ever catch a break? Highly doubtful if you ask me... •evil grin• I wanted to thank you for all the reviews for the last chapter of "A Taste of Disaster" I have received over the past few weeks. They really meant a lot to me and encouraged me to start posting this newest bit of madness. Thanks! I am trying to reply to all of them, but since I am a tiny bit busy at the moment, it might take me a bit yet. Thanks for your patience! •hugs all reviewers• Oh, and about this story: I am trying to post once a week - I know, I know, let's see how long THAT lasts. I am doing my best, though. So, the next chapter should be here next Tuesday, and, as always: Review? Yes, please!**


	2. Modes of Conversation

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
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A/N:**

**Yes, it is great to be back! •g• I really missed all this... And you guys, of course! •hugs• It's very nice to hear that you are enjoying this so far. I must publicly declare here and now, however, that all this isn't just MY fault. While Jack and I were in Istanbul, she helped me plan all this. I can still remember our conversations, something like "Jack: Wait, wait, wait, so HE is the second cousin's brother's father's stepson? Me: Nooo, haven't you been listening? Look at the chart (I DO have a chart!), he is the one that is connected to the bad guy's friend's blood brother. Jack: Oh, yes, naturally!" •frowns• Well, more or less. It was fun, though!**

**Hmm, yes, another thing: I am not yet sure how big a role Erestor and/or Glorfindel will play in this story. Even if this makes some of you stop reading immediately: I don't think they will be in all of it. As you can see in this chapter, I am not just putting them back into their old places and expect them to be as they were before ASoT, but I don't think they will play that big a role. But they will definitely be in the next chapters, since Glorfindel is a stubborn idiot and so is Erestor, never fear.**

**Oh, and yet another thing: Christmas. I will be flying to Portugal next Monday to visit my mother - anything closer to the 24th would have been far too expensive, so I have to skip classes. What a shame. •g• I will be flying via Dublin where I have a stopover of about 22 hours (Joy!), so I won't actually get there till Tuesday, which means that I don't really know when to post the next chapter. I would post it early, but with all the shopping and classes and everything I still have to do here before I leave, I think that will be rather unlikely. So I will post as soon as I get to Portugal and have slept a little, meaning probably on Wednesday. I am sorry for the delay, but it's unavoidable.**

**Yup, that was a giant A/N as always. Nice to see that things are getting back to normal. So, what do we have... Elrond is rather displeased and tries to lecture his sons on their general immaturity, Glorfindel is smug, Aragorn, Legolas, Celylith and the twins are being obstinate, Erestor and Glorfindel are having a conversation that doesn't go ... quite ... according to plan, and Celylith finds out just why it is a bad idea to sneak through Imladris' hallways at night. Why he was doing that in the first place? Ah well, read on and find out... •g•**

**As always, enjoy and review, please!**

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Chapter 2

"I," the Lord of Rivendell said, managing to lengthen the single sound considerably, "demand an explanation."

It was, of course, not the only thing he really wanted to demand. He had a long list of needs and wishes; a list that was in fact so long that it had to be rolled up so that no one stumbled over it. It was an almost Erestorishly long and neat compilation, and on top of it were right now things like "New brains for all my sons", "Peace and quiet" or "Ask Manwë what you did to him to deserve such punishment".

He was firmly convinced that he had in fact done nothing; not even the numerous pranks and catastrophes Elros and he had come up with or had been involved in when they had been young had been enough to warrant _this_. Well, he decided a moment later, except maybe that one time involving them, hot beeswax and Maglor's favourite hunting dog, but that was it.

Realising that nothing but deep silence was meeting his (he hoped ominous and threatening) words, he shook his head and narrowed his eyes at the five young beings standing in front of him, lined up in a neat row. None of them looked overly repentant, let alone intimidated, and Elrond sighed inwardly. So much for his words being ominous and threatening.

"Well?" he went on, arching an eyebrow as high as it would go. And that, even if he was saying so himself, was quite high indeed. "I am waiting."

He wasn't the only one. The silence even intensified, if such a thing was even possible. The two factions that were glaring at one another in a way that would have made even Maedhros slightly uneasy – and that, as Elrond knew from experience, had been nigh impossible – were quite easily discernible. First, they were standing as far away from each other as possible, and second, the two on the right were red. The three on the left, on the other hand, looked … glazed. Not that their eyes looked that way or anything, no, it was more a … glazed roast look.

Elrond grinned inwardly. That was actually quite a good comparison.

He waited for another half a minute before he leaned forward in his chair, grey eyes fixed unwaveringly on the four younger elves and the much younger man in front of his desk.

"I am beginning to lose my patience," he said. It was a fact that was painfully obvious, after all. "What in the name of Eru Ilúvatar and all that is holy happened?"

The two groups exchanged heated looks, as if daring the others to answer. In the end, Elladan caved in, raised his chin in a rebellious manner and addressed his father.  
"They started it, _ada_."

"We did _not_!"

"You are lying, Elladan!"

Elrond raised a hand to silence any more outraged protestations from the right side of the room and used the other to massage the bridge of his nose. He hoped he was wrong, but he had the feeling that the headache that was pounding behind his forehead was on its way of turning into a full-blown migraine.

"Please explain to me," he began, turning to look at his elven sons, "why my oldest son and heir sounds like an elfling of twenty years."

Young Celylith, who was standing next to the twins, was shrugging soundlessly, his face the picture of utter and complete innocence. He was clever to keep out of this, Elrond had to give him that. Elrohir, too, had recognised the value of feigning ignorance, and in the face of fraternal betrayal Elladan lowered his head.

"Well, they _did_," he still muttered almost inaudibly.

Elrond gave Aragorn and Legolas – who were about to protest again – a look that would have made a warg stop in mid-jump and arched his other eyebrow. Considering the fact that the first was already close to his hairline, it was quite a scary sight indeed.  
"They started what?"

"This," Elladan answered, raising his head and making a sweeping motion with his hand that earned him yet another glare from the right side of the room. "All of it."

"_You _poured that paint on _us_, not the other way round!" Legolas spoke up, his eyes narrowing in a manner that would have caused anyone who knew King Thranduil at all to duck or run away. "We only retaliated, my lord!" he added and looked at the dark-haired elf lord. "_They _started it!"

"Oh, as if you didn't deserve it!" Elrohir huffed, ineffectively trying to tug at his dark-blue shirt. The fabric wouldn't budge even an inch; it was stuck securely to the young elf's skin. "You provoked us!"

"And then you poured this … substance on us!" Celylith spoke up for the first time, his unwillingness to accuse his prince of anything in Lord Elrond's presence being overridden by his – in his eyes – righteous indignation. "Or rather," he went on, shooting Aragorn a look that should have felled the young man on the spot, "_you _did, Estel."

"It serves you right, all of you," the dark-haired ranger shrugged, pushing a strand of once-dark hair away from his still very red forehead. "If you cannot evade two people whom you're expecting to follow you – one of them a man, I might add –, I have no sympathy at all. You are fully grown elves, for Elbereth's sake!"

"Of course you have no sympathy." Elladan glared at his human brother. "You poured that horrible concoction on us, after all!"

"Well – yes."

"So let me see if I understand you correctly," Elrond said in a tone of voice that sounded far too calm and understanding. He was quite obviously trying to stop this (whatever 'this' was) before it descended into bloodshed. "You," he looked at Aragorn and Legolas, "provoked the three of them. After that you," his eyes wandered over to the left side of the room, "saw it fit to pour what looks like several dozen pints of red paint on them. After which you," his stern looked returned to the two beings on the right, "poured glue on _them_. Is that correct?"

Only a fool would actually answer Lord Elrond of Imladris when he was speaking to you in just this tone of voice, and neither the young elves nor the ranger were fools. Mouth clamped tightly shut, they glared at each other, looking quite like two groups of rabid dogs that were just waiting for the right moment to pounce on one another and try to rip each other's throats out.

Elrond really hoped it wouldn't get that far, even though he wouldn't be very surprised if it did.

There was no answer – again – and that was when he lost what was left of his patience.

"Is that correct?" he all but bellowed. It was the tone of voice he had used to his advantage during countless campaigns, a tone of voice that used to intimidate even the most battle-hardened warriors of any race.

"Yes, _ada_," Elrohir answered for all of them.

"Oh, wonderful." His father smiled at him. It wasn't a particularly nice smile either. "That doesn't explain anything, though. Whatever possessed you to behave in such a manner?"

"Well," Elladan began, foolishly assuming that this was an actual question, "there was the small matter of…"

"Do I look as if I want to hear an answer to that, Elladan?" Elrond interrupted him, nostrils flaring and eyes shooting tiny daggers at his oldest son. "Do I?"

The five of them simultaneously shook their heads. None of them dared look up; if it hadn't been clear that the Lord of Imladris was only one step away from doing bodily harm to someone, it was very clear now.

"So," Elrond finally spoke up again, his palms lying flat on the surface of his wooden desk. It was probably meant to ensure that he didn't try and strangle one of them. "Let me tell you how _I _see this entire situation. My sons," he shot the twins and Aragorn a very dark look, "and their friends who are both old and experienced enough to know better behave like mischievous elflings, running around my house pouring vats of Valar-know-what on each other. The Captains Elvynd and Isál come to me – for the third time this month, I might add – and ask me for an assignment far, far away from here. And in a matter of minutes I will have Erestor poking his head into my study because he has a list of at least a dozen people who have since yesterday complained to him about the noise and general chaos you five have been creating. Are _you _following _me _so far?"

The five young beings nodded their heads amongst murmurs of "Yes, my lord" and "Yes, _ada_", but were spared an answer by a knock on the door. A second later it opened, just wide enough for a dark head to be poked through the gap. The elf whose head had so unexpectedly joined the conversation (he was wise enough to keep the rest of him out of it) smiled, apparently completely unconcerned, and addressed Elrond.

"Excuse me, my lord, but there have been several complaints I promised I would talk with you about…"

"Not now, Erestor." Elrond's voice sounded friendly and obliging, but there was pure steel beneath it. And quite a lot of annoyance, of course.

When Erestor didn't budge immediately, the half-elf raised his head and gave him a credible version of his fabled _look_ of impending death and doom. Erestor was one of the few people in Rivendell who weren't intimidated when said _look _was centred on them in all its glory, but that didn't mean that he was stupid. After they had returned from Aberon and Donrag and he had still been healing, Elrond and Glorfindel had treated him like crystal or something similarly fragile. It had been a moving act of concern that had become incredibly irritating after a while, and after a rather loud outburst that had been peppered with more expletives than most people thought a councillor of Erestor's stature should even know, the other two elf lords had taken his word for it that he really was fine (at least physically, as Elrond would add with a cross look in his direction whenever their conversation turned to this topic), thank you very much.

Which essentially meant that, if he didn't want to have his head ripped off in the next ten seconds, he should vacate the immediate vicinity of Elrond's study.

"I see," he said slowly, letting his eyes wander over the five red respectively glue-covered beings, who were looking at him with wide eyes, as if begging him not to leave them alone with the half-elven lord. "I will come back later, then."

"Later would be good," Elrond said. "Good-bye, Erestor."

Erestor was many things, but slow on the uptake he was not. Not even a second later he was gone, the door closing almost soundlessly behind him, and Elrond turned back to his sons and their friends.

"Where were we?" he asked in a far too pleasant manner. "Ah yes. I had just found out that my sons have gone insane. And Thranduil is doing this to me on purpose," he added with a look in Legolas' and Celylith's direction. "I don't know really why, since I haven't done anything to really infuriate him in the last millennium or so, but he is. There is no doubt about that."

Usually, neither the twins or Aragorn nor Legolas or Celylith would have let that stand without contestation, but today was an exception. All five of them were warriors, after all, and possessed quite a strong sense of self-preservation. Elrond looked at their shame-faced expressions for a while before his stern mask began to crack, and with a sigh he leaned back into his chair.

"All right. I do not want to know what it was about. I do not want to know whose fault it was or who started it, or whom you bribed so I only heard about this madness this morning." He turned to look at Elrohir. "Did you pour that paint on anybody else?"

"_Ada_!" the younger twin exclaimed, sounding appropriately outraged. "Of course not."

Elrond shot him a look that quite clearly said what he thought about his son's overly innocent manner.  
"Of course not," he repeated sarcastically. "Could one of you explain then why Captain Isál and Captain Elvynd came to me yesterday, almost begging me to transfer them to a scouting party going to someplace very remote not to mention dangerous, like the middle of Gorgoroth?"

The five of them exchanged a conspiratorial look. It was so nice to see them getting along again, Elrond decided darkly.

"I have no idea, _ada_," Aragorn finally said, looking at his father with wide grey eyes. "They have been rather stressed, you know. The wedding will be soon, after all."

"So you didn't pour paint or glue on them, their relatives or future relatives?" Elrond asked, only to make sure.

"Of course not, _ada_." This time it was Elladan who answered, sounding as if the mere thought of them pouring anything on anybody was revolting.

"Good," the half-elf cut off any more hypocritical statements that might be forthcoming. "I would hate to have to talk to Lady Gaerîn's father, or Lady Gelydhiel's."

This time, the astonishment on his sons' and the wood-elves' faces was genuine.

"You can be assured, my lord, that we would never do anything to Lady Gaerîn or her family and friends but treat them with the utmost respect that they so rightly deserve," Legolas told him for all of them, muted horror on his light red face. A shudder raced through him a second later; it was clear that was just imagining the consequences of such an action. "Or even think about it."

Elrond gave him a smile that was far too bright to be genuine.  
"Of course not, young prince. I don't know what I was thinking." His face turned serious again and he fixed a stern look on the fidgeting young elves and ranger in front of him. "So you didn't bother anybody else? Or destroyed anything of value?"

"No, _ada_."

"No, my lord."

"Well…" Celylith once again spoke up, the respect that he had for Lord Elrond not allowing him to lie or obfuscate anything. It was a very honest streak that the twins were determinately trying to help him eradicate.

Elrond released a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding and closed his eyes.  
"Yes, Captain?"

"Well, my lord," Celylith tried again, either not seeing or ignoring the _looks _the twins, Aragorn and Legolas shot him, "we sort of ran into one of Lord Erestor's aides…"

"By 'ran into' you meant you met him, do you not?" Elrond asked.

"Well," Celylith said for the third time, openly fidgeting now, "yes and no, my lord. He … well, he dropped a stack of documents he had been assembling for Lord Erestor. And…"

"And?" Elrond prompted. He didn't even want to hear the 'And'. Erestor would find a way to blame him for his sons' actions, that much was already sure, and when the other elf lord heard that someone had interfered with his precious papers, lists and reports, he would be most displeased to say the least.

Elrond shuddered. He could still remember what had happened to the last elf stupid enough to do such a thing.

"And some papers got carried away by the breeze," Legolas went on, apparently having decided that it was his duty to stand by his friend, no matter how much he'd wanted to kill him earlier. He took a deep breath and lifted his chin, too much his father's son to back down now or show insecurity. "They ended up in one of the pools."

"In several of them, actually," Celylith corrected his prince, only to fall silent when Legolas glared at him. Honesty was a very nice thing, the elven prince decided, but one could really take it too far.

Elrond looked at them incredulously, all previous anger having faded in face of this new catastrophe.  
"Then why are you still alive and Erestor hasn't tried to disembowel you yet? He had a perfect opportunity not even five minutes ago." He winced. "You know what happened to the last elf that lost one of his reports."

Aragorn and the twins winced, too. Said elf was still battling tears every time he saw Elrond's chief advisor.

"His aide was still trying to fish them all out of the water the last time we saw them," Elrohir explained, his shame-faced expression having intensified significantly. He had always had the greatest respect for Erestor, and the idea of having him out there for his blood wasn't one the younger twin relished. "He has probably not told him yet."

"And who could blame him?" Elladan muttered under his breath.

The answer to that was very simple: No one. Elrond resisted the urge to beat the back of his head against the back of his chair and forced himself to be calm. Breathing, that was it. In … out … in … out…

It wasn't working. Of course it wasn't working.

"All right," he finally said. "I will deal with this later. Apart from this complete and utter disaster, have you done anything else?"

"No," Elladan said with a thoughtful frown. "That was it, I believe."

"Then, if I were in your shoes, which I am not, thank the Valar, I would disappear and hide until Erestor finds something else to occupy his thoughts." Elrond grinned gleefully at the five younger beings' looks of dread and barely veiled terror. They could deal with orcs and other dark creatures, but Erestor was something else entirely. "You might think about getting Glorfindel to do something to antagonise him. That might be enough to make him forget about your sacrilegious actions."

Three pairs of grey and two pairs of blue eyes focussed on him, varying shades of disbelief shining in the depths, and Elrond found himself smiling widely.  
"True, most likely not. But you don't have that many options left, do you?"

"Your sympathetic attitude is overwhelming, _ada_," Aragorn said sourly.

"I use it when it is appropriate, thank you, my son." Elrond smiled benevolently and raised a hand to point at the door. "You can go now."

The four elves and the ranger turned only too willingly, but before they had even taken more than a few steps, the half-elf's voice stopped them in their tracks.  
"How does one remove the paint, Elrohir? I refuse to have one of my sons and King Thranduil's heir walking around looking as if they just came out of a slaughterhouse."

A smirk spread over the twins' faces as they stopped and looked at Aragorn and Legolas, but Elrohir answered obediently, "I would try something highly alcoholic. It _might _take off the upper layers of the skin with it, but the paint should be gone, too."

"You will find yourself missing more than just a few layers of skin, _muindor nín_, if…"

"Enough." Elrond didn't even raise his voice, not that he would have needed to. He wasn't the Lord of Rivendell for nothing, after all. "Estel, how does one remove the glue?"

Aragorn actually snickered, something that garnered him a _look _of death and doom from the twins (and even from Celylith, who was getting quite adept at reproducing it – at least for a wood-elf), but quickly turned serious again.  
"Oh, it's _their _recipe. I only modified it a little, to make it more permanent. I have the ingredient they need to make the normal solvent work."

"That's low, Estel," Elladan complained, looking at his human brother with wounded eyes, "using our own weapons against us. We teach you everything we know and how do you repay us?"

"Yet another thing you taught me." Aragorn shrugged, apparently not very touched. "'Use the weapons you have at your disposal'. Those were your words, I believe."

"I _told _you not to tell him that, but did you listen?" Elrohir accused his twin, eyes shining with mirth. "He has always had a freakishly good memory for such things."

"Out!" Elrond interrupted them, working hard not to let a smile show. "I don't want to be in the same room with you when Erestor finds you. Go!"

The mention of Rivendell's chief councillor was enough to silence any remarks the five young beings might have liked to utter, and a moment later they were gone, conversing amongst themselves conspiratorially in low tones. There was nothing left of the hostile attitude that had filled this room only a few minutes ago, the previous argument forgotten in the face of a new threat that needed to be addressed. If Aragorn and Legolas had not been red and the twins' and Celylith's clothes glued to their skin, no one would have believed that they had almost tried to kill each other yesterday afternoon.

While the five of them filed out of the room, a golden-haired elf stuck his head into Elrond's study, much in the same manner that Erestor had used a few minutes earlier. A blond eyebrow was raised amusedly as he watched the younger beings go, but quickly enough the elf fixed his attention on the dark-haired elf lord sitting behind his desk, his chin resting on his hands.

"Am I disturbing you, my lord?" Glorfindel asked, a sardonic expression on his face.

Elrond didn't answer and only buried his face in his hands, which the older elf took as an invitation. His hands behind his back, he sauntered into the room, his light green robe moving softly over the stone floor as he walked.

"You wouldn't believe what I heard just now," Glorfindel began, the sardonic expression making way for glee. Elrond didn't really know if it was aimed at his as-good-as-dead sons or Erestor, and he didn't really want to know either. "One of Erestor's aides…"

"Yes, Glorfindel. I know," Elrond interrupted him, only just resisting telling his friend that proper elf lords weren't supposed to gossip, or when they did, they were at least not supposed to enjoy it so much. Considering that Glorfindel was always lecturing him on what a proper elf lord did and did not do, he might be interested in it. "Eru, I know."

"He will blame this on you, at least partly, you know. They _are _your sons."

Now Glorfindel most definitely sounded gleeful. He also sounded like someone getting ready to enjoy a spectacle, something that fitted the way he was slouching in an armchair, yet another thing that was highly un-elf-lordly behaviour.

"I know."

"Well, in their defence," the golden-haired elf said with a large smile, "it _has _been awfully quiet around here lately."

"Glorfindel?"

"Yes, my friend?"

"Be quiet."  
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Two days later, the weather was still as perfect as it had been the past few weeks. The sun was shining brightly and was slowly making her way over the horizon, the slight breeze was still blowing and the sky was still as blue and cloudless as before.

There were people in Imladris, however, who did not value this as much as others, especially those who actually had other things to do than pour various liquids on other people. There were actually quite a lot of them, and one was sitting in Rivendell's vast, sprawling library, various writing utensils and papers covering a small desk standing in front of one of the balconies. The breeze was moving the almost transparent curtains gently back and forth but wasn't strong enough to ruffle the documents, and the sweet scent of flowers and water and _summer _filled the vaulted rooms.

There weren't many other elves in the library at this time of day, now that the afternoon had just begun, and those who were knew well enough to leave the dark-haired elf to his work and let him be. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of one of Lord Erestor's tempers (common opinion was in fact that there _was _no right side), and it was public knowledge that nothing displeased him as much as being disturbed when he was trying to work.

The dark-haired elf lord, on the other hand, didn't seem to be paying his surroundings a lot of attention. His head was bent and his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the parchment lying in front of him and the small, precise letters he was painting on the pristine surface. If there had been anyone standing closely enough, they would have seen the look of barely muted joy on his face that almost bordered on wonder as he drew every single letter.

The silence that lay over the room wasn't an uncomfortable one and remained perfect and unbroken until a soft shuffling noise could be heard that was almost completely hidden by the sound of the dark-haired elf rolling up his roll of parchment to make room for the next paragraph. If he had heard it, he did not betray that fact, nor did he seem to notice the blond elf who was slowly and carefully inching closer, having entered the room completely soundlessly only moments earlier.

The golden-haired elf was almost within reach when the other spoke up without turning around or even interrupting his work.

"When will you learn, my friend, that one cannot sneak up on somebody sitting in a silent library while one is wearing long robes?"

The thus addressed elf froze in mid-motion, a myriad of emotions flickering over his face before he finally settled for a mixture of annoyance and disappointment.  
"You, Erestor, are no fun at all."

"As I have told you many times before, Glorfindel: I am a scholar. We aren't _fun_."

Glorfindel, however, wasn't so easily pacified. When he rounded the other elf's desk, Erestor looked up and would almost have laughed out loud. His friend who was always so prone to lecturing everyone and anyone about the conduct of proper elf lords was actually _pouting_.

Under different circumstances he might not have said anything, but this opportunity was just too good to pass up.  
"Why, my Lord Glorfindel, I believe you are pouting. A most un-elf-lordly behaviour, I believe."

"I am not 'pouting'," Glorfindel told him in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. "Elf lords do not _pout_."

"Well, you are," Erestor told him in a similar tone of voice. "Stop it."

Glorfindel artfully arranged his face into a bright, insincere smile while he dragged an armchair closer to Erestor's desk (yet another crass violation of his Things-a-proper-elf-lord-does-and-doesn't-do list) and sat down.  
"Is this better?"

Erestor gave him a quick look before he deliberately returned his attention to the document in front of him.  
"No. It's awful."

Glorfindel looked about himself, clearly trying to spot something where he could admire his reflection, and Erestor almost rolled his eyes. The golden-haired elf could be incredibly vain, yet another thing he would never willingly admit.  
"That's not what I have heard from…"

"Please, my friend, spare me," he told him in a long-suffering tone of voice. "I do not wish to know. Is there a special reason why you have decided to grace me with your presence?"

"Do I need a special reason now to come and visit my friend?"

Erestor sighed, quickly sprinkled some of the fine white sand over the parchment that he kept in a small, beautifully decorated pot on the desk and pushed it aside to let the ink dry, quite clearly resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn't get any work done any time soon. It was a rather common reaction when faced with a determined, mischievous Glorfindel, and Erestor would be damned if the golden-haired elf wasn't enjoying it.

"No," he admitted, putting down the quill and eyeing his friend somewhat suspiciously. "But you usually do."

"True." Glorfindel nodded. "But is it so hard to believe that I just wanted to visit you and make sure you're not overworking yourself again?"

Erestor exhaled and leaned back into his chair, spearing the other elf with a glare.  
"If you are starting this again, Glorfindel, I swear I will…"

"No," the fair-haired elf was quick to interrupt him. "No, I am not. At least," he added calmly, "not right now."

Erestor gave him another dark look.  
"Then, if I might ask, what are you doing here? I am a very busy elf, as you should already know, with many demands on my precious time."

Glorfindel looked at him with large, wounded eyes, resembling a kicked puppy dog more than anything else, but when Erestor was neither bothered nor impressed by this he gave up and grinned at his friend.  
"Oh, I am just here to insult you."

"Excuse me?" Erestor raised a dark eyebrow, looking remarkably like Elrond for a few moments.

"I have a list here somewhere," Glorfindel said absent-mindedly, patting the robe he was wearing. "Where is it…?"

"Have you been at Elrond's Dorwinion again?" Erestor asked.

"You wound me, _mellon nín_," Glorfindel retorted, placing a long-fingered hand over his heart. "You know I don't like to drink alone."

The grin was back on his face as he looked around until his eyes came to rest on a crystal carafe sitting on a small table to the left of the desk. In half a second he had got up, taken up the decanter and two goblets and had returned to Erestor's desk, his grin now even brighter and friendlier.

"Will you join me for a drink?"

Erestor was about to shake his head, but it took only one more look at Glorfindel's grin and gave up. He hated to admit it, but even he wasn't completely unaffected by the golden-haired elf's not inconsiderable charm.  
"All right," he agreed with a sigh and a stern look that was belied by the small smile on his face. "But in half an hour I will evict you from this room. I do have work to do."

Glorfindel's grin grew wider and considerably more genuine and he handed one of the filled goblets to the dark-haired elf.  
"To your health, my friend."

Erestor nodded, but suspicion immediately reappeared in his eyes.  
"Are you starting again?"

"Who, me?" Glorfindel asked, his face the very picture of innocence. There was something in his eyes, though, a serious, determined sparkle that was neither innocent nor mischievous. "You are, though. Speaking of which, how are you?"

"Fine." By now, Erestor was sounding the tiniest bit vexed. "How are you?"

Glorfindel shot him a look that was somewhere between exasperated and bemused.  
"I am perfectly all right. But we are not talking about _me _here."

"No, _you _are not talking about yourself. For once." Erestor shook his head, seeing the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. If he could get Glorfindel to start bickering like an elfling (something which the blond elf did far too frequently), he just might get out of this. "I am not in the mood for this, Glorfindel."

"You never are." There was no censure in the words, only mild annoyance and a lingering touch of disappointment that Erestor found so much harder to bear. "And, if you can help it, you never will be. I cannot help you if you hide from me, my friend."

"I am not hiding from you," Erestor told the other elf, incredulity in his voice that was even partly genuine. "You must confuse me with Captain Isál. If the poor elf keeps up this kind of behaviour, he will have turned into a squirrel by the time the day of the wedding comes, and then Lady Gaerîn would be insufferable for centuries…"

"Erestor…"

"And I do not need your help," the dark-haired councillor finished his sentence, ignoring his friend. "Neither yours nor Elrond's."

"Oh?" Glorfindel arched a blond eyebrow, apparently unimpressed. "I believe that I never said you did."

"You don't have to." Erestor didn't snap at him, but it was a close thing. "You and Elrond, you are … you are…"

"We are what?"

"_Hovering_," the dark-haired elf finally said with feeling. "As if you are just waiting for me to make a mistake, to lose control for a moment."

Glorfindel only looked at him, eyes large and dark and serious. There was something in the blue depths, but before Erestor could identify it, it was gone, leaving an insurmountable wall in its place that he had seen the golden-haired elf throw up far too many times.

"Is that what you think we are doing?" Glorfindel asked, his voice low and sombre. "That we are waiting for you to _fail _in some way? Is that why you are avoiding us?"

Hearing his friend say it like this, it sounded stupid and childish and things far worse.  
"No." Erestor sighed and shook his head. "Of course not, _mellon nín_. I would never think such a thing of you – or him. Never. I am sorry if I insinuated that I did."

"We are worried, Erestor," Glorfindel told him softly. "You are hiding in the remotest part of the library most days, you rarely use your study anymore, and you haven't even publicly berated that aide of yours for losing some of your papers!"

Erestor forced himself to remain calm – Glorfindel meant well, he told himself over and over again, he really meant well – and took another mouthful of wine. Realising that Glorfindel was not letting this go (he could be incredibly tenacious like that), he placed his cup on his desk and leaned forward.

"I am going to say this only once, Glorfindel, so I would advise you to listen. And you can tell Elrond, too, because I know that you will repeat this conversation to him word for word." Glorfindel opened his mouth to say something, so he raised his hand and smiled. "I am not blaming you, my friend. He can be scary like that."

He took a deep breath and looked firmly at the other elf.

"I am all right, Glorfindel. I am not saying that I have just forgotten about what happened in Donrag; you were right, you know, I never will. Yes, I sometimes have to force myself to remain calm when I enter small rooms, and yes, sometimes I have nightmares too horrible to speak of lest remember clearly, but I am fine. I really am."

The blond elf only looked at him, hands thoughtlessly wrapping themselves around his wineglass. After a moment or two he smiled, but it was a sad, wan smile that did not reach his eyes.

"You are better, yes, I will admit that," he told the other. "Your physical wounds are healed; even I who I am no healer can see that. But since we are talking honestly to each other and I have cornered you for once, let me tell you something: You cannot divert me so easily. You are not fine."

"Glorfindel…"

"No, Erestor." There was no anger in the fair-haired elf's words, only patient understanding and well-hidden worry. "What you just told me, I already know. I know about your fear of small spaces, and I know about your nightmares. You are dealing with them as well as any elf could, yes, but you are not hale, you are in fact far from it. And who would be surprised? You _cannot _be fine. You almost _died_, Erestor. If it hadn't been for Elrond, you would already be sitting in Mandos' Halls."

Erestor bowed his head but didn't say anything. There really was nothing to say.

"About one thing I have no doubt, however: That you _will be _all right. You are one of the strongest elves I have ever met in my entire life, and it would take far more than the likes of Captain Gasur to stop you from achieving something you have set your mind on." A small smile spread over his face. "And you're too stubborn, too."

Glorfindel leaned forward and placed his cup on the desk, trying to catch the other elf's eyes.

"Just remember that we are here, Elrond and I, when you wish to talk or just wish for some company. You have been avoiding me for the past few weeks, Erestor, and there is no need to. You should know that I would not force you to speak of something about which you wish to remain silent."

"I know that," Erestor spoke up, nodding his head firmly as he raised his chin to stare at his friend. "Of course I know that, Glorfindel. It's just that … that…"

He trailed off, something so uncharacteristic of him that Glorfindel was reminded of the first few weeks after they had rescued Erestor from Donrag, when he had been so unlike himself and unpredictable that it had been nearly impossible to talk to him without upsetting him with a thoughtless word or look or action. The few days when he had hesitantly talked about what had happened (at least in a manner of speaking) had been over quickly, and since then it had been impossible to talk with him about anything that touched the subject of Donrag in even the slightest way.

"It's just that…" Erestor tried again. "I am not sure myself."

"Of what?" Glorfindel asked as gently as he could.

The dark-haired elf lowered his eyes for a moment before he raised his head again, grey eyes that were haunted and too bright by far suddenly dark in his pale face.

"...anything?" he said in a tone that sounded so insecure and simply un-Erestorish that Glorfindel had to fight the urge to take his friend into his arms like a young child. It was something that the other elf lord would not have appreciated, that much was sure.

"Forget I said that," Erestor added after a second, running a hand over his face, and when he looked at Glorfindel again, the calm, professional mask he had been wearing for several long weeks now was firmly back in place. It was an expression Erestor had used in the past when he wanted to hide his true thoughts and feelings, but for the first time since Glorfindel knew him it was a mask in the truest sense of the word, a mask that hid all and left only shreds of him out in the open. "I … I have not been resting very well."

"Erestor…" Glorfindel tried again, unconsciously reaching out with a hand to touch his friend's shoulder.

"Don't," Erestor said almost harshly, his body moving backwards a few inches without him noticing. "Just … don't, Glorfindel. I cannot talk to you as you wish it, not now. I am sorry."

He was about to get up, his mind urging him to flee this room and his friend's company before he lost the rest of his artfully constructed calm, but this time Glorfindel's hand shot out and closed around his elbow.  
"Don't go," the blond elf told him and looked at him pleadingly. "I am the one who is sorry, my friend. I should not have pressed you so. I did not mean to, you have to believe me."

It was one of the harder things he had done lately, but Erestor forced himself to sit back down. He took a deep breath and did his best to smile at his friend. Judging by Glorfindel's expression, it didn't look very genuine.  
"You didn't press me. It would take a lot more than you to make me tell you something I do not wish to divulge, insufferable Vanya."

"Arrogant Noldo," Glorfindel answered automatically. He slowly and carefully removed his hand from Erestor's arm – under any other circumstances the other elf would have torn his head off for restraining him thus – , watching him as if he was afraid he would bolt at any given moment.

"Sometimes," Erestor admitted with a small nod.

Glorfindel didn't answer immediately, but in the end he took a deep breath and leaned back into his chair, acknowledging that Erestor would not try to escape.  
"If I promise not to speak about it again, will you stay and have that glass of wine with me? You know that we are here if you wish to talk to somebody, I know that I can be a single-minded idiot sometimes…"

"You are not an idiot."

Glorfindel grinned at him, recognising a peace offer when he saw one.  
"But I am single-minded?"

"You said that, not me."

Glorfindel gave him a stern look but didn't reply, and companionable silence descended over the room. A few minutes later, he leaned forward to place his now empty goblet on the edge of Erestor's desk, and promptly remained that way when he caught sight of the document on which the dark-haired elf had been working. Ignoring Erestor's slightly indignant huff – this was only a message to the master of the warehouses concerning which supplies they had run out of or were about to run out of and which would last them for a while longer –, he pulled the list over to him, turning it around so he could read it properly.

Erestor gave him an amused look and placed his empty glass on the desk as well.  
"No, I don't mind if you read my correspondence. Would you like to read the private letter I finished an hour ago?"

"It's just a supply list," Glorfindel said with a dismissive wave of his hand, his eyes not leaving the rows of neat black letters. A few heartbeats later he raised his head, a large, bright smile on his lips. "These _tengwar_ are drawn beautifully, my friend."

An answering smile that easily outshone Glorfindel's spread over Erestor's face. To anybody else, it would have seemed a strange thing to say, but he knew what Glorfindel was really saying.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "It has become much better over the past weeks."

His smile widened even more and he reached out with his right hand to pull the letter closer to him. In the bright sunlight that poured through the windows, Glorfindel could see the faint white scars that ran over the back of the other elf's hand and two of his fingers. They were fading so quickly that he sometimes wasn't sure if they were in fact still visible or if he was imagining them, an imagine fuelled by the memories that would never fade.

When they had freed Erestor more than three months ago, his right hand had been a mess, there was simply no other word for it. Gasur, the mad captain of the Lady of Donrag, had taken great pleasure in breaking and re-breaking every single bone in Erestor's hand and wrist that he had been able to get his hands on. Erestor didn't speak about it, hadn't even in the very beginning before he had rebuild his shields that were so strongly in place now, but Glorfindel knew that he had tried to set the bones himself and how very, very afraid he had been that he might remain crippled.

It had been a near thing, even Elrond admitted that. The half-elf had, shaking with anger and fear and disgust, broken most of the half-knitted bones again to set them properly, which, considering the state Erestor's limb (and the rest of his body) had been in then, had meant the use of a scalpel and more blood than Glorfindel had ever seen covering anybody's hand. Anybody's hand that was still attached, that was.

In the end, Elrond's healing powers, his skill and Erestor's tenacity had prevailed. For almost a month, the dark-haired councillor had been unable to use his hand at all, and almost another month until he was strong enough to use it in a reasonably normal fashion. Erestor – normally not the most obedient patient ever – had obeyed every single instruction to the last letter, too afraid that he might set back or completely ruin his recovery. It had amazed Elrond at first, but the half-elf had quickly recognised it for what it was – a deep-seated fear of losing the mobility in his right hand, the hand he used to use a quill.

It had paid off then, Glorfindel decided happily. Erestor had been careful not to let him see anything he had written ever since they had returned to Rivendell, and, when asked, Elrond had feigned ignorance or had ignored his questions completely.

"I cannot see any difference," he told the elf who was staring intently at the letters he had written only a few minutes ago. "Your writing looks the same as it always has."

"Oh, there is a difference," Erestor said absently, and Glorfindel instinctively knew that he wasn't only talking about the letters. "It is slowly returning to normal, though."

Glorfindel found himself smiling again, a smile full of relief and affection.  
"I am glad to hear that, my friend," he said. "You cannot imagine how glad."

Erestor returned the smile and pushed the paper over to the right, frowning slightly as he remembered yet another item he had to add to it later. A moment later he looked up, having just remembered the beginning of their conversation, and frowned again.  
"Did I understand you correctly earlier when you said that you were here to insult me?"

"Oh, that." Glorfindel waved his words aside, leaning back into his chair and looking for a more comfortable position. "Don't take it personally."

"Oh, no, why would I?" Erestor asked sarcastically. "Is there a particular insult you wish to tell me?"

"As I said, I do have a list here somewhere," Glorfindel mumbled, searching his pockets yet again. Considering that formal robes didn't have that many pockets, it took him quite a long while to find what he was looking for, but in the end he withdrew a small, folded scrap of parchment and held it aloft in triumph. "Here it is! Let me see…" He trailed off, unfolding the parchment and looking at it intently. "'Arrogant Noldo', I already said … oh yes, I like Number 15."

"Number 15?" Erestor asked, his interest piqued. "How many are there?"

"Twenty-four."

"A good number." Erestor nodded approvingly. Considering that there was no one in Rivendell who wrote as many lists as he did, that was high praise indeed. "What does Number 15 say?"

"Uhm…" Glorfindel made an indefinable noise and frowned. "Nothing, actually."

"Give me that!" Erestor said and snatched the list before the other elf really knew what was happening. The dark-haired elf's face darkened as his eyes flew over the hastily-written lines. "What?! '_His filing system is illogical, impractical and antiquated'_? Who wrote that??"

"I didn't!" Glorfindel quickly protested. "It was Elrond's sons or the prince, I swear."

"Why in Elbereth's name would they…"

"They want me to make you mad at me so you will leave them alone," the other elf quickly explained, cutting his friend off before he could start one his rather famous rants. Erestor didn't rant often, but when he did, it was hard to stop him. "They are becoming desperate – and thinner. They don't dare show their faces during the day or during the feasts at night."

"Serves them right," Erestor grumbled. "First they cause my aide to lose his papers and then they write something so utterly _untrue_?"

"Of course it's not true, Erestor," Glorfindel hurriedly said. "Everybody knows that."

The other elf shook off his indignation long enough to give the blond elf a dark look.  
"Are you humouring me?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Glorfindel told him with a smile. "So, what can I tell them? Will you let them be the next time you see them or will you insist on giving them these _looks _of yours?"

Erestor took a deep breath and forcibly unclenched his teeth.  
"Did you read Number 23?"

"No." Glorfindel shook his head far too quickly for it to look genuine. "Come now, _mellon nín_. They have lived in fear long enough. If you keep torturing them as long as you usually do, Estel will have reached middle age by the time you decide that it is enough. Just let it go. And," he added, making a wild dash for the list, "give me back my list."

"No." Erestor shook his head, quickly withdrawing the paper in question. "It's mine now, and it's evidence. I might need this as proof sometime in the future."

Glorfindel gave him a stern look.  
"Have I not already told you that it is unbecoming an elf lord to blackmail his lord's sons?"

"No," Erestor told him innocently. "It must not have come up before now."

He gave Glorfindel a last look before he leaned back into his chair, folding his "evidence" and letting it disappear in one of his pockets. And Glorfindel, watching his friend's long graceful fingers while they folded the piece of paper, couldn't help but smile yet again.

Erestor just might be right. It would take more time, yes, but everything seemed to be returning to normal.  
**  
** **  
** **  
**  
The hallway was empty. Finally. It was rather impressive, Celylith decided, that he had never noticed how many elves there were in Rivendell that paid the kitchens a visit at night, or walked past the kitchen, or, for all he knew, had celebrations right next to it. He had always known Rivendell Elves were strange, but that they had a this culinary obsession was new to him.

The silver-haired elf pulled his head back around the corner, gave the now once again dark and silent kitchen a last look – if he had learned one thing, it was that the twins could be hiding virtually anywhere – before he threw his makeshift bundle over a shoulder and carefully moved out of the door. The hallway was still dark and silent, something for which he was profoundly grateful as he slowly pulled the door closed, mindful of the slightly squeaking upper hinges.

Once outside, he stopped for a moment to listen intently. Noldor were slightly clueless for most of the time (something that they most likely were also saying about the Silvan Elves), but even Deep-elves tended to notice someone when he was standing right in their path.

Most of the time, that was, he corrected himself bitterly, resisting the urge to touch his still slightly sticky hair. How the twins had managed to miss Estel when he had been sneaking up on them with that heinous glue of his was truly beyond him. Yes, the boy – a term he would never allow Aragorn to hear him use when talking about him – was sneaky, amazingly so for a human, but he was a _man_! Dúnadan or not, there was no way at all he should have managed to do that!

Celylith took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. No real harm had been done, after all. Yes, his hair might still look very glazed and shiny and was completely unmanageable, and yes, Estel's "solvent" might have removed the glue as well as the upper layers of his skin, but he was largely undamaged. His clothes had come off, so that was something, wasn't it? And besides, even now, more than five days after the fact, Aragorn and Legolas were looking decidedly colourful, which was something that made his situation incomparably more bearable.

The silver-haired elf grinned wickedly as he employed every single one of the stealth tactics that had been drilled into his head since he had been an elfling in order to avoid running into anybody. Even while he was quite certain that he usually would have been able to hear any of Rivendell's inhabitants before they heard him, they did have the distinct advantage of this being their home. The main building was a high-ceilinged, open and airy construction, but there were enough nooks and crannies, dark corners and shadowed niches to hide in. If he made it to his room without being seen by anybody – and, Valar, how much he did not want to be seen! –, it would be a minor miracle.

But still, he decided, seeing Legolas look so decidedly … pink was something he was enjoying far more than a loyal subject should. He stopped for a moment to peer around the next corner and eye the staircase leading to the upper level suspiciously. It looked clear, which was usually a bad sign, but he hardly had the time to wait here for a better opportunity to present itself. With a heavy sigh, Celylith grabbed the bag more tightly and quickly moved over to the staircase, all the while waiting for someone to call out to him.

No one did. There was no one in sight, the small hall completely empty and silent, and the silver-haired elf could cross it and move up the stairs without anybody spotting him. Most of Rivendell's inhabitants were most likely still clustered around the kitchen, Celylith mused, entertained, while he thanked his lucky stars and began to climb the stairs. A few seconds later, he had reached the upper level of the house, a fact that surprised him so profoundly that he stopped for a second to get his bearings.

In the end he shrugged and headed down the corridor to his left, slowly beginning to accept the fact that he just might get back to his room unbothered and unnoticed. Now he only had to get past Aragorn's and Legolas' room, take the first corridor on the right, and then…

Even while he was still completing that last train of thought, he froze dead in his tracks when a strange sound reached his ears, making him instinctively reach for a weapon that wasn't there. It took him quite a while to figure out what it was: The sound of someone biting back a low scream or another sound of distress. It was clearly coming from the room he had just reached; even for elven ears the sound would have been too soft to hear otherwise. He would have bet he wouldn't have heard the noise if he had been in the room right next to this one – which, of course, would explain just why it wasn't Legolas standing in front of this door, but him.

Celylith lowered his head and exhaled. Just why did it always have to be Estel? This reminded him very much of a similar situation last year, when the boy had had nightmares about what had happened to him during the summer. In the end, Aragorn had talked to Legolas about what had tormenting him in his dreams night after night, but not before he had made the ranger swear that he would. And even after that it had taken him quite some time to actually do it – Estel was nothing if not stubborn.

It was logical that the man would be having nightmares. Valar, considering what had happened to him in Donrag and Aberon – considering what was constantly happening to him – it was a miracle that he was still sleeping at all. Celylith himself had had suffered night terrors for a couple of nights when they had returned to Rivendell a few months ago, and he would be very surprised if the same wasn't true for Legolas or the twins as well.

But he still remembered how he had felt when he had finally managed to claw his way back to consciousness, how weak and helpless and so very vulnerable. He knew that Legolas had refrained from rushing into the room every time he had nightmares, both because the elven prince had still been recuperating himself and because he knew him and knew how much he hated to be seen like this, even and especially by his best friend. Estel was no different; he was, maybe, even more stiff-necked and proud. Celylith was very sure that he wouldn't want anyone to see him in such a state, least of all someone who was not his family or Legolas.

Celylith was just coming to the decision of granting his human friend his privacy and moving on when another, slightly louder but much more terrified sound could be heard, and that made his decision for him. Without hesitation, he reached out with his free hand and opened the door, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room almost immediately. The silver-haired elf quietly closed the door and began to make his way over to the large bed on the right side of the room, avoiding the obstacles in his way with an ease that only long familiarity brought. A few seconds later he had reached the bed and the figure that was lying on it, the sheets twisting into an ever-tightening knot as the man moved restlessly.

The elf gave the tossing ranger a quick look, taking in the increasingly violent movements and the tortured expression on his face. The dark head was tossing wildly from side to side, hair sticking to the sweaty skin, and the eyes were moving restlessly beneath the closed lids. Celylith suppressed a shudder, reminded himself that that was perfectly normal for a human, and quickly grabbed the candle sitting on the nightstand in an ornately carved candlestick. A few seconds of quick work later, the wick caught fire, and in the light of the single candle Celylith reached out to wake the young man.

"Estel? Estel, wake up!"

Before his hand had even made contact with the ranger's shoulder, Aragorn surged upwards, sitting up in bed so suddenly that Celylith would almost have jumped back. His heart racing wildly, the elf allowed himself to sink back onto the edge of the bed and withdrew his hand in a pacifying gesture. Aragorn wasn't looking much better himself. His eyes were open now, but they were empty and so full of nameless terror and fear that Celylith involuntarily took a deep breath.

"Estel?" the elf tried again. "It is I, Celylith. You are dreaming."

For long moments, it looked as if the man hadn't even heard him. The blank, terrified stare in his eyes only slowly diminished, and it took nearly a minute until the rigid muscles slowly relaxed. With a very deliberate movement, the young ranger closed his eyes and exhaled, and when he opened them again, there was recognition in the gaze.

"Celylith?"

The elf smiled even though he did not feel like it and was reasonably sure the man wouldn't even notice.  
"Yes, Estel, it is me. Are you awake?"

The man ran a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat that had accumulated on his brow. There was more moisture covering his bare upper body, and even despite the warm breeze coming from the open balcony doors gooseflesh was already beginning to form. A moment later the ranger raised his head again and quirked his eyebrows at the other, wry amusement on his face that couldn't hide how shaken he really was.

"No, Celylith, I am not. I am having a very bad dream, I think."

"Funny, _dúnadan_," Celylith said dryly. "You did have the bad dream, though."

Aragorn didn't say anything and looked bemused more than anything else. It was an expression Celylith hadn't expected to see on his face – reluctance, anger, shame and a dozen others, yes, but bemusement? It was something he couldn't explain, and he didn't know if he should feel bewildered or unsettled.

"I … think so," the ranger said hesitantly, scooting backwards against the headboard as he tried to extricate himself from the sheets that were wrapped tightly around his body.

There it was now, the reluctance Celylith had expected, and for a second the elf only felt profoundly relieved.  
"If you … want to talk about it, I would be glad to listen," he finally offered. "After what you went through in Aberon and Donrag, it is perfectly normal to…"

The dark-haired man raised his head, the bemusement now joined by confusion and insecurity.  
"I didn't dream about Donrag. It wasn't like that. I … I don't know what it was. It felt different."

Now it was Celylith's turn to quirk an eyebrow at him.  
"I heard you outside in the hallway, Estel. It looked and sounded very much like a nightmare."

Aragorn frowned and ran a hand over his face again, as if trying to wipe away the remnants of the dream.  
"Maybe you are right," he agreed a little too quickly. "I just can't remember what it was about, that's all."

Celylith gave him a suspicious look. He was the son of a royal advisor, after all, and knew a tactical lie when he saw one. He briefly thought about pressing the matter but needed to take only one look at the man's drawn face to decide differently.

"Are you all right?" he finally asked, feeling that the question was terribly inadequate.

"Yes, Celylith." Aragorn nodded quickly and gave him a forced smile. "I am all right."

"Are you sure?" Celylith wasn't giving up so easily. He gave the young man a look that very clearly said what he thought about the veracity of his statement. "I could get your brothers, or just go next door and wake Legolas…"

"No!" Aragorn's head shot up again. He shook his head vigorously. "No, don't. I am all right, I swear to you. Don't tell them."

Celylith shook his head as well and looked at the man disapprovingly.  
"Aragorn – I can still remember how it went the last time you talked me into something like this…"

"Don't – tell – them," Aragorn repeated and gave him a look that was somewhere between pleading and demanding. "Please, Celylith. They would only worry needlessly. It was only a dream, after all."

"Is that so?" Celylith asked mildly.

"You said it yourself," Aragorn pointed out.

"Well, I am not always right." The elf frowned. "In fact, it seems that I am right very rarely lately."

"Elbereth, how I wish there was someone else here!" Aragorn smiled, clearly trying to lead this conversation onto safer territory. "A wood-elf admitted openly that he isn't always right. I think I might faint."

Celylith gave the young man a long look, unwilling to let this go just like that, but also very aware of the fact that persistence would get him nowhere. The boy _was _Lord Elrond's son, after all, which meant that he would be stubborn on principle.

"How Legolas spends so much time with you without trying to kill you is a mystery to me," he told Aragorn, deciding to accept the man's desire to leave this be – for now, that was. "He has more self-control and patience than I gave him credit for."

"He has a few hidden talents." Aragorn nodded his head. "That's what he keeps saying, at least."

"He's a persistent one."

"True," Aragorn agreed. He took a deep breath and did his best to look calm and in control. "I am fine, Celylith. Really."

Celylith either recognised the futility of voicing a protest or was too polite to do so, and so the silver-haired elf only nodded and sighed.  
"All right, Estel. I will leave you to your sleep, then."

"Thank you. I really appreciate you waking me … what is that?"

Celylith froze in mid-motion while he was taking up the bag he had dropped when he had sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked remarkably like a mouse suddenly finding itself face-to-face with a cat.

"What is what?"

"That," Aragorn said and pointed at the bundle Celylith was holding. "Let me see."

Celylith was about to protest, but before he could say a single word Aragorn's hand had shot out – with a speed that no mortal man should possess, the elf noted sourly – and he had snatched the bag away from him. It was clear that the nightmare had not affected Aragorn's reflexes.

Knowing that it would be useless to try and pry the bundle out of the man's hands – he could have done it if he'd really wanted to, of course, since he was considerably faster and stronger than Estel –, he took a deep breath and tried to look unconcerned. He could have saved himself the trouble, though, since the young man had unwrapped the bundle and was staring slack-jawed at its contents that were thus revealed.

"Are those … fish?"

"Yes," Celylith said. It was hard to deny, after all.

"And," the man's brow furrowed in confusion, "fruit?"

"Yes," Celylith repeated in a long-suffering tone of voice.

"Forgive me for asking, _mellon nín_, but why are you carrying fish and fruit through the house? And at night, at that?"

Celylith remained resolutely silent. Aragorn stared at the two small fish and the ripe apples and pears that were sitting in his lap. For several moments, he couldn't figure out just why Celylith would be doing such a thing – wood-elves were a strange lot, granted, but this was a little unusual even for them – but then the confusion on his face receded and was replaced by sudden understanding.

"Oh, I see! Lúthien!"

"Bats have to eat, too," Celylith said mutinously.

"Of course, of course." Aragorn grinned at him. "And why can't she hunt like any other bat? I mean, flies and such can't be too hard to catch."

"They can be if you're a tiny little bat," the elf retorted, instantly on the defence.

"It's not tiny anymore, Celylith! It's, what, seven or eight inches long now?"

"Six and a half," Celylith huffed.

"You _measure _it?"

"Her," Celylith corrected absent-mindedly. "And besides, I barely get the opportunity to let her out at all. Sometimes I am sure that Legolas is lurking outside of my windows, net in hand."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Aragorn agreed with a shrug. "He really, really doesn't like that bat." His eyes returned to the open bundle in front of him. "But why bring it … her," he corrected himself quickly, "why bring her this? I mean, I know that some kinds of bats eat fish…"

"Lúthien likes trout."

"…but why the fruit?" the man went on as if Celylith hadn't even spoken.

"Because," Celylith began, snatching the bundle from Aragorn and beginning to wrap it up again, "it's July. It's hot."

"That doesn't make a lot of sense, my friend," Aragorn told him evenly. It was something he was saying a lot to Legolas and his friend.

"Of course it does," Celylith insisted. He knotted the ends of the cloth together, slung the bundle over his shoulder and stood to his feet. "It is hot. So when you leave fruit in a warm place…"

"…it attracts flies," Aragorn finished his sentence. He grinned at the silver-haired elf. "Not bad, Celylith. It is obvious that you have a lot of experience dealing with abominable creatures."

"Thank you. And I will pretend I didn't hear that." The wood-elf turned towards the door, but before he had taken more than two steps he stopped and turned back around, a forbidding look on his face he must have learned from his king. "Not a word about this to anybody. Especially those brothers of yours, and Legolas, and your father … oh, and the kitchen staff."

"Oh, I won't tell anybody," Aragorn said with a sly smile. The smile faded somewhat as he looked at the elf, utter seriousness in his eyes. "If you don't tell them about this."

"Whom, the kitchen staff?"

"Celylith."

Aragorn didn't have to say more, and Celylith let out a deep sigh.  
"All right, Estel. I will not tell them about this."

"Good." Aragorn smiled at him, obviously relieved. "Again, thank you."

"You are welcome, Estel." Celylith returned the smile. "Good night."

Aragorn nodded at him, even though it was painfully clear that he wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight. Celylith turned around and walked over to the door, stepping out of the room and pulling the door closed behind him without making a sound. It would be really stupid to be caught now, after all.

While he was walking back to his own room, carefully listening to any and all sounds that might indicate that someone was coming his way, his thoughts returned to Aragorn's dream, and the blank look of utter terror that had been on his face when he had jerked awake. He believed him that it hadn't been about Donrag or Aberon; Celylith had involuntarily witnessed a few of those dreams and they had looked and sounded quite a bit differently. What he didn't believe, though, was that the man couldn't remember what it was he had dreamed about.

He had always been an elf who had trusted his instincts, and right now they were telling him that this – whatever it might be – was not a good thing, and that the last thing Estel should be doing was dealing with it alone.

Celylith smiled thinly as he reached his room and soundlessly slipped inside. He had promised the man that he wouldn't tell his brothers or Legolas about this nightmare he'd had tonight, but he most certainly hadn't mentioned written notes.

Semantics was something truly wonderful, wasn't it?

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_ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
muindor nín (S.) - my brother  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
tengwar (Q.) - 'letters', the alphabet used by the elves  
dúnadan (S.) - 'Man of the West', ranger_

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Celylith is being devious ... that really can't end well, can it? •g• Oh, and I am very glad that you like Lúthien. She is an adorable bat - I really don't know what could go wrong... •evil grin• So, what will happen? What is going on with Aragorn? Will Elrond go mad? Whom will Celylith tell what happened (because, let's face it, he WILL tell somebody)? All that and more in the next chapter, which should be here with a day delay or so. Reviews might help with that, too. •g•**

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**Additional A/N:**

**As always, I am replying to your lovely, wonderful reviews via a big group email. The only problem with those is that I can only include you if I have your email addresses, so make sure that you have a valid email address on your profile page or leave your address if you review anonymously. If you write down your email address in the text of the review itself, remember to use This . bloody (at) annoying . form, otherwise FF-net deletes it. I don't care what you people say, FF-net is far more evil than I am! Because of all this, I apologise to  
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**Blues Scale (still!), Dreamzone (the address didn't show up), Kuramagal (no email address on the profile page), Websterans (anonymous review), Unknown (ditto), Reader (ditto), Clone Trooper (no email address on the profile page), Bookworm13 (anonymous review) and Kalmiel (no address on the profile page)  
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**for not replying to your reviews. I am sorry, but I have found that, for me, the group email is the easiest solution. Sorry!**


	3. Things That Never Were

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

Sorry for the slight delay, guys. I spent an entire day at Dublin airport, which, nice as it is, really begins to lose its charm when you're forced to spend a whole night there and almost freeze to death. I visited the city though, and it was just as beautiful as I remembered. A bit colder, though (last time I was there in August). So, now I'm here in Portugal where it's also cold (Portuguese people don't believe in heating systems), but at least I am with my family and am having fun. My sister got here last weekend instead of this weekend, so we have had a lot of catching up to do.

Since I don't have a lot of time, I'm going to make this short. About the next post: I am here till Thursday next week and then it's New Year (yay!), so I guess it would be realistic to say I will be returning to my old posting habits from then on. Meaning the next chapter should be posted on Tuesday (that's, what, the 2nd of January?), IF I don't have too bad a hangover. You never know.

Anyway, here's the next chapter, in which Aragorn doesn't – quite – voluntarily talk to somebody about his dreams, Celylith talks to Legolas, and Elrond and Glorfindel have a discussion. And everything that follows is Glorfindel's fault, because he just HAD to say it. He can be stupid like that, even after all these millennia.

Oh, and: (To those who celebrate it) Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! May you get many presents and enjoy hopefully stress-free days with your families!

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 3

More than two days later, Celylith had yet to find a way to either let his (still slightly pink) prince or the (now mostly glue-free) twins know that there was something wrong with Aragorn.

The man wasn't making it any easier, mind you. He didn't look if there was anything wrong with him. He was teasing Isál (who was looking more nervous by the day), tormenting his brothers, sharing conspiratorial whispers with Legolas while shooting quick glances in his and the twins' direction and was merry and friendly and altogether too cheerful and healthy-looking. In short, he was acting as he always had since Celylith had met him.

If Celylith hadn't known what he did, if he hadn't been there when the man had jerked awake so violently that he had almost fallen out of bed and landed on the floor, he would have believed it, too. Estel was far too adept at hiding whatever was bothering him – he was actually quite a bit like Legolas in that regard. He suspected that one had rubbed off on the other, even though he couldn't figure out which one.

There was another thing he was beginning to suspect, namely that Estel was developing psychic abilities. He didn't know if the man was acting proactively or if he had had somehow figured out that he had no intention of honouring his promise, but he was doing everything in his power to make sure that Celylith wasn't alone with either Legolas or the twins. That effectively meant that he had permanently attached himself to Celylith's side, acting for all the world to see as if someone had tied him to Celylith's shoulder with a length of translucent rope.

It was beginning to become annoying. It wasn't that he didn't like the young human – he did, in fact – but … well, enough was enough. He would never get a chance to tell Legolas or the twins what Aragorn so obviously didn't want him to tell them – or actually find an opportune moment to talk to that young she-elf he had seen around one of the painters' studios – if the ranger wasn't letting him out of his sight for even a second. And as much as he treasured Estel's companionship, he treasured his own head and a healthy social life even more. His social life because of obvious reasons, and his head because something horrible would happen to it when Aragorn's brothers and Legolas found out that there was something wrong with the boy (as they always did) and that he, Celylith, had known about it all along (as they also always did).

Circumstances were beginning to call for desperate measures (even though he wasn't desperate enough yet to truly consider written notes), and so Celylith did something he wasn't entirely proud of: During the feast that night, when Aragorn had more or less un-glued himself for half a minute to find himself a wine glass, he sidled up to one of Lord Erestor's aides (not the one whom they had ran into that memorable day, since that one still began to foam at the mouth whenever he saw any of them) and casually mentioned that Number 15 of the list they had given to Lord Glorfindel had been the young man's idea. It wasn't a real lie – Aragorn had written it down while Legolas had dictated it to him and the twins had been snickering in the background –, and so Celylith only felt guilty for mentioning it to someone who would undoubtedly report back to his master as soon as possible.

For once and possibly the first time since he had begun spending time with Legolas' human friend, one of his plans actually worked how it was supposed to. Lord Erestor's aide appeared at Lord Elrond's advisor's side in under five minutes, which, considering the number of people crowding the Hall of Fire, was quite an achievement indeed. It would seem that the elf took his colleague's … mishap with the documents personal. It took him far less time to whisper something in Lord Erestor's ear, and only half a second for the dark-haired elf lord to fix penetrating, very displeased eyes on the ranger.

Celylith did his best to look innocent (_'Please don't become suspicious, please don't become suspicious, please…'_) when Lord Erestor walked up to them a few minutes later, exuding malicious purpose in the way that only he and an ill-tempered Nazgûl could.

"Estel." The dark-haired councillor smiled at the young man, completely ignoring Celylith or Legolas who stood half a step to the right, talking to one of the captains. For a moment, Celylith actually thought that he had seen pointy, sharp incisors, so feral was the smile. "Could I have a word with you, please?"

Aragorn, completely unaware of the doom that was approaching or rather already standing right in front of him, smiled back, only a bit warily.  
"Of course, my lord. How can I help you?"

"Oh, not here." This time, the smile was downright dangerous. "We really should be doing this in private." Before Aragorn could say anything, one long-fingered hand had closed itself around his forearm and was pulling him into the direction of one of the quieter corners of the hall. "This is not going to take long, trust me."

Aragorn, now definitely suspicious, cast a desperate look over his shoulder that Legolas missed and Celylith ignored shame-facedly. A moment later he was gone, all but being pulled away by a very determined elf lord. Celylith waited for a few moments to make sure that the two of them had passed out of sight (Aragorn's hearing was exceptionally good for a human's, and it never paid to underestimate it), before he turned around, dark-blue eyes searching for his prince. Legolas had just finished his conversation with the other warrior and was looking up, meeting his eyes with a smile, but he turned serious soon enough.

"What have you done?" he asked, stepping closer and scanning the other wood-elf's face.

"Me?" Celylith asked innocently. "Why would you think I had done anything, my lord?"

"I know you," Legolas retorted. "You are wearing that face. The 'I have done something I know I shouldn't have done and I regret it but not enough to actually do something about it' face."

"Oh, _that _face, is it?"

"Yes, it is," the elven prince said curtly. His eyes narrowed as he caught the last glimpse of Aragorn being led – or rather yanked – around a corner. He turned back to Celylith, suspicion on his face. "Did you have anything to do with that?"

"With what?"

"Celylith. Enough."

"Well," Celylith admitted, making a vague gesture with his left, "I might have mentioned to someone just who is responsible for Number 15 of our little list."

"You did _what_?" For a moment, Celylith would have been able to swear that Legolas' voice had become considerably higher. "You told someone that…"

"No," the silver-haired elf interrupted his friend before he could descend into mindless panic. "No, I might have mentioned that it was Estel's idea."

"Why on earth would you do that?" Legolas seemed completely flabbergasted. "Have you sworn a blood oath? Have you switched sides, are now working for Sauron and want to kill Aragorn? Or, better yet, you have been sent from the future to destroy us!"

"All three, actually," Celylith told him with a grin. Legolas gave him a dark look, and the silver-haired elf relented. "I needed to talk with you, my friend. Without my new … attachment."

Legolas grinned at him.  
"Yes, I noticed that. Is there anything you wish to tell me about the nature of your relationship with Estel or should I just go ahead and inform Lord Elrond that you wish to ask him for…"

"Stop that!" Celylith ground out, deciding that this was the last time he tried to help anybody around here if that was the thanks it got him. Against his resistance and firm resolve, a faint blush was beginning to creep up the sides of his face. "I need to talk to you, Legolas. In private and right now, before he comes back."

"Lord Celylith of Mirkwood is afraid of a ranger who hasn't even seen 25 summers yet. I did not think I would ever be privileged enough to witness such a thing. I should…" Legolas trailed off when he saw the serious look on the other's face, and with a small inward sigh he nodded at his friend. Everything really _had _been going far too smoothly lately. "All right, _mellon nín_." He thought quickly. "The fireplace?"

Celylith returned his nod, and a moment later they were making their way over to the empty fireplace. In a few months, it would again be the centre of every gathering that took place in this room, but at the moment, the mere idea of actually lighting a fire that was not absolutely necessary for cooking or work was nothing short of preposterous. Even though darkness had already fallen, it was still very hot and, if the past weeks were anything to go by, it wouldn't cool down very much during the night. The fireplace was cold and empty, and the armchairs that were usually so popular with the inhabitants of Rivendell had been abandoned in favour of airier seats closer to open doors and windows.

When they had both settled down, Celylith on one of the armchairs and Legolas on the smallest of the sofas, and had made sure that no one was in hearing range, the blond prince fixed firm silver-blue eyes on his friend that demanded a quick and clear explanation.

"All right, Celylith," he began. "We are as alone as we are going to be in the next few hours, and unless the Rivendell Elves have developed bat-like hearing," Celylith hid a wince at that, "no one should overhear us. What is the matter, and why can't Aragorn hear about it?"

Celylith was silent for a few moments, unsure of what he should say. It didn't matter that he had been trying to engineer this particular moment for almost three days; he had never actually thought about just how he would be telling this to his friend. It was bad enough that he was breaking a promise; he would not misuse Estel's confidence more than he absolutely had to.

"If I tell you this," he finally began, "you have to promise me that you will only talk with Elladan and Elrohir about it. Don't mention it to Lord Elrond, unless the two of them think it absolutely necessary."

The twins would know when their father had to be involved and if this was even a problem or if he was imagining everything. That was what Celylith hoped, at least.

"You have my word," Legolas told him solemnly, looking torn between mild amusement and mystification. "I will only seek the twins' counsel; no one else's."

Celylith nodded and resisted the urge to look about him. Acknowledging that he dreaded Aragorn's return would only make him feel guiltier.

"Two nights ago, I passed by Estel's room. I would almost have missed it, but I was listening quite intently for anything that might indicate that there was anybody coming my way and, well, let's face it, Rivendell Elves are not quite as inept as one thinks them to be when it comes to stealth and sneaking up on people and…"

"Celylith," Legolas interrupted him with forced patience, "I need you to come to the point."

"He was having a nightmare," the silver-haired elf said curtly. "I heard him cry out when I walked past his room. I entered his room and woke him up."

"That is all?" Legolas asked. There was a sadness in his eyes that Celylith could only understand too well; Estel was barely twenty-three years of age and was already having nightmares that would cripple a man thrice his age. And, Elbereth be his witness, he had more than enough reason to have them, too. "I regret to say this – Eru, how I regret it! –, but that is nothing new. He has been having them ever since we returned from Donrag, now and then, and before that, too. And I, for one, can only understand it too well.

"So can I, my lord," Celylith agreed soberly. "But no, that is not all. When he woke up, he did not know me. It took him nearly a minute to recognise his surroundings and remember who I was."

"It was a nightmare, Celylith. Sometimes people react like that, especially humans. You know that."

"It was more than that, Legolas." Celylith protested. "If you could have seen his eyes when he woke up…" He shook his head, clearly trying to suppress a shiver. "Valar, I cannot forget the look in his eyes. There was pain and fear and blank, stark terrorthere that I have never seen on anybody's face who was just having a nightmare. It was something different, something … something more."

Legolas didn't say anything for a while, his brow wrinkling. It was clear that he wasn't disregarding what Celylith had just told him; he, too, knew the way their luck usually ran and that to blindly assume that these things didn't mean anything was nothing short of blind, rather misplaced optimism.

"Did you ask him what he dreamed about?"

Celylith shot him a look that clearly said something along the lines of 'Please give me some credit'.  
"Of course I have, my lord. He said he couldn't remember."

Legolas snorted.  
"But of course not. Will he ever come up with a more original excuse?"

"If I remember correctly, _mellon nín_, you have used those particular words yourself a few times in the past…" He trailed off when Legolas glared at him. "And the answer to your question would be: 'Most likely not.'"

"Thank you," the blond prince said ironically. "What else did he say?"

"In the beginning he, too, said that it was something different. He didn't say what, I doubt that he fully knows himself, but he said that it was no nightmare. When I showed interest in the question and pressed him on the subject, he became most evasive."

"Oh, he is good at that." Legolas nodded. "It has something to do with him being Lord Elrond's son, mark my words."

Celylith looked at him with wide, dark eyes and gave him a quick, insincere smile.  
"I am breaking a promise by telling you this, my lord. I promised him that I would not tell you or the twins, or anyone else, for that matter. I do not know what this is about. I do not think that Estel is trying to deceive us – he does not fully know what is going on, about that I am sure, but I am also sure that he has at least an idea. He would not share it with me, nor would I have expected it of him. He will share it with you or the twins, however, if you make him."

"'Make him'," Legolas repeated sourly. "Oh, yes. 'Making' sons of Elrond do anything usually goes so very well."

Celylith only looked at him, barely hidden misery written all over his face. Legolas knew that his friend would never have betrayed Aragorn's trust like this if he didn't truly think that it was necessary. Celylith was a reasonable elf (well, if one disregarded his little obsession with wild and abominable creatures), and would only go so far to indulge an intuition or feeling. He had to be deeply convinced that something was wrong with Aragorn to tell him something the man had shared with him in private.

"So you really think that something is wrong with him?" he asked, inwardly asking himself just why _he _hadn't noticed anything. Come to think about it, Aragorn had been a little preoccupied and quiet lately.

"Yes, my lord," Celylith said emphatically. "He said that it wasn't a dream about Donrag or Aberon, and I believe him. I have seen him have a few of these, and they looked and sounded different. I do not know what it was, and I would not have bothered you with it but for the look in his eyes." He shook his head again. "Whatever it was he saw, Legolas, it didn't only frighten him. It _terrified _him, so much that he needed more than a minute to return to his senses and recognise his surroundings. Something is amiss, I know it is."

Legolas was quiet for long moments, staring intently at his own hands that lay intertwined in his lap. In the end he raised his head and looked at his friend.

"All right, my friend. I will find the twins tonight and speak with them. They will know what to do." A small smile ghosted over his face. "Knowing them, it will have something to do with tying him to something unmoving and threatening him with having to take inventories until he tells them what they want to know."

"Inventories!" Celylith gasped in mock horror, one of his hands going to his chest to clutch at his heart. "That is cruel!"

"But effective," Legolas told him with a grin. His grin wavered a little. "He will be furious with you."

"Yes," the other elf admitted. "Yes, I know. I am willing to risk that."

Legolas looked at him for a moment before he began to smile.  
"You are a good friend, you know."

"I know." Celylith nodded not very modestly. "Amongst other things, of course."

Legolas was about to say something to that, but another thought seemed to strike him and he changed his mind.

"How did he get you to keep quiet about this in the first place, anyway?"

If there was a way for a face to darken and blush at the same time, Celylith's had found it.  
"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Oh, but you do." Legolas shook his head, the grin making a reappearance. "You wouldn't have remained silent for so long unless he had something to hang over your head. What is it?"

"Nothing," the younger elf said curtly.

"Please tell me it has nothing to do with that horrible bat you are hiding in your room."

Celylith looked instantly alarmed.  
"How do you know she is in my room?"

"Connexions," the elven prince retorted. "And common sense. It is the one place where no sensible being would keep a bat, so, naturally, it has to be there."

"She is a very clever bat," Celylith beamed. No father could have been prouder of his newborn child. "She has this corner she likes to sleep in, and…"

"Not now, Celylith," Legolas interrupted him. "How many times do I have to tell you to get rid of it?"

"Her," the silver-haired captain corrected him. "And I cannot hear you, my lord. My ears seem to be closing up…"

"Fine," Legolas said and inclined his head. "We will talk about this later. But," he added, looking at his friend threateningly, "we _will _talk about it, trust me on that."

"Of course, my lord." Celylith grinned at him, looking altogether very unconcerned. "I will be waiting."

He was about to say more, but just in this moment Aragorn re-entered the hall, looking properly terror-stricken and chastised. Erestor was following him, smiling happily and generally having the look of the proverbial cat that had eaten the equally proverbial bird. It was so easy to make Lord Elrond's chief advisor happy, Celylith mused.

Legolas, who had noticed the way Celylith had almost imperceptibly stiffened when the young man had arrived, followed his look and almost immediately stood to his feet.

"We should rejoin the others before he spots us. We wouldn't want to make him suspicious; if he guesses that you have spoken with me, he will hide. And he's good enough at that that it would take us at least a day to find him, even with the twins' help, and I am not in the mood for that."

"Then we should most definitely not risk it."

Celylith smiled and stood up as well, following his prince over to the next large group of elves. They were crowding around Captain Isál, who was apparently just telling them a – probably slightly embellished – story about what his future brother-in-law had done to him now.

Legolas returned the smile, but it froze quickly as he studied his human friend's merry face. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he saw the small, almost perfectly hidden signs of stress on the man's face. It was a safe bet that the dream that Celylith had witnessed hadn't been the first – or the last.

"I hope you are wrong, Celylith," he said quietly and emphatically.

"So do I, my lord." The silver-haired elf nodded, sighing deeply. "Valar, so do I."

But he wasn't, of course, and both of them knew it.

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Yet another beautiful day had dawned, which Aragorn was eyeing right now with quite a lot of suspicion. In his experience, days that started as gloriously as this one only wanted to lull you into a false sense of security so something terrible and usually sharp-teethed could tear you into little pieces later.

It was the Valar's idea of a joke, or that was at least what he thought.

The ranger lay back with a sigh. He was still in bed – it was only early morning and last night's feast had ended only a few hours ago. While that was a satisfactory state of affairs for the rest of Rivendell – Elves needed little to no sleep and were almost always in the mood for feasting and merry-making –, it was a very tiring one for him.

He wasn't complaining, of course. He was happy for any kind of excuse for returning to his room late at night, for an excuse for not having to face his large, empty bed a second earlier than he had to. Last night, when he had been lying in bed and had waited for either sleep or – more probable – nightmares to come and visit him, he had tried to remember when had been the last time that he had had a good night's sleep. He hadn't actually been able to remember, was still not able to remember, and suddenly, that scared him profoundly.

It shouldn't be like this. His mind was still clear enough for him to know that beyond the shadow of a doubt. He had dealt with nightmares before, Elbereth, he could hardly remember a time when he hadn't had nightmares. In the very beginning, he'd had nightmares where he relived the deaths of his parents, even though he couldn't remember much of these dreams and knew of them mostly by his brothers' descriptions. Later all the little fears and problems that a normal child experienced had weighed on him as well, and many of them had hit him harder because his family … well, was not a normal family. He could still remember how he had found out as a young child what people meant when they said that someone journeyed to the Grey Havens – namely that they would take the ship to Valinor and would never return to Middle-earth.

The nightmares he'd had after that revelation, nightmares about his family and friends leaving him forever, had lasted the better part of a year. And lately, of course… Aragorn smiled bitterly. In the past few years, he'd seen and done enough horrible things to ensure that he would have a steady supply of nightmares for the rest of his life – and repeat performances would be rare. He honestly didn't know if it was Legolas' bad influence or just the worst case of bad luck he had ever seen or even heard of, but lately he seemed to be stumbling from one catastrophe into the next.

So, no, he was no stranger to nightmares. He knew them intimately, more often than not how to deal with them and, more importantly, live with them. But this … this was something completely different. He hadn't slept more than two or three hours for longer than he could remember, and when he couldn't fight off sleep any longer and got pulled under by the heaviness that seemed to have attached itself permanently to his eyelids, he jerked wide awake only thirty or forty minutes later. He thought that, except for Celylith, no one was suspecting anything yet, but that couldn't last forever. It was taking more and more of his steadily diminishing strength to deal with this, whatever it was, and keep up his façade of utter normalcy, and, sooner rather than later, he would slip up and someone (most likely his brothers or his father) would realise that there was something going on.

The young man groaned in frustration and burrowed his head deeper in the pillows, closing his burning eyes. That was the worst part: He had absolutely no idea what 'it' was! He hadn't lied to Celylith about that; he didn't know what was going on, and that was making him feel so frustrated and powerless that he could hardly bear it. It felt like nightmares, and yet it didn't, he remembered what he had dreamed about and yet he didn't … nothing made any sense.

And if he didn't figure out how to change that, he would be in serious trouble. He already suspected that he didn't have a lot of time left; Celylith was beginning to look more and more preoccupied and worried. Aragorn was secretly amazed that the wood-elf had kept quiet for so long, threat to Lúthien or no threat to Lúthien. He knew that Celylith honoured his vows and fought to keep them as any elf – and especially wood-elf – would, but if there was one thing that one should never, ever, underestimate, it was that no one and nothing would ever come between him and his loyalty and allegiance to Legolas. For Celylith, his prince always came first, and Aragorn was surprised and somewhat flattered that the silver-haired elf had weighed his needs and wish for privacy against his loyalty to Legolas and had (apparently) still not come to a decision.

And Celylith was right to worry, Aragorn decided wryly. Legolas would be furious when he heard that he had kept this from him, but right now he was too frazzled to really care about something like that. The lack of sleep had first made him irritable, something that he had been careful to hide, but now it only made him feel completely drained. After a night of forced cheerfulness, he didn't know if he would ever be able to gather the energy to get up and put on any kind of mask, let alone one that would fool anybody into believing that everything was all right.

And it wasn't, any fool could see that. And no matter how tired and exhausted he was, he knew that he didn't really _want _to find out why either. He didn't remember much of these dreams, but what he did remember was filled with so much darkness and helplessness and terror that his mind shied away from it every time he thought about it.

So he didn't think about it. That was another thing he had learned: Avoidance. It was not a very healthy way to deal with problems, he was aware of that, but right now he simply didn't have the strength to figure out a more productive way.

Aragorn opened his eyes again and contemplated getting up – why he was even still bothering to lie down he didn't understand himself. He was only a few steps away from asking someone for advice, and, for him, that concept was so frightening and unusual that he could hardly wrap his mind around it.

But how could he ask anybody for help when he wasn't even sure what was wrong with him and… Aragorn's thoughts trailed off as a small sound reached his ears, filtering through the open balcony doors. It sounded as if someone's hand had slipped and he or she had hastily tightened his grip, and even though such a display of clumsiness was highly unusual, he knew very well what that meant.

The sound was joined by small shuffling noises, and Aragorn closed his eyes once more and tried to decide whether he should pretend to be asleep or not. A second later he decided that no one would believe him anyway should he try to simulate sleep; he was rather certain that half of Rivendell had been able to _hear _him thinking just now.

When the shuffling noises were joined by two distinctive silhouettes that were clearly visible against the thin curtains that moved lazily in the morning breeze, Aragorn let out a sigh and shook his head.

"Come in."

A deafening silence fell on the balcony. A few heartbeats later a dark head was poked through the gap between the curtains, and against the blinding sunlight that accompanied it, Aragorn couldn't see which one of the twins it was.

"Good morning, Estel."

A second head appeared next to the first, and the little worried crease between his eyebrows that was purely Elrohir told Aragorn quickly whom he was dealing with.  
"Did we wake you?" the younger twin inquired.

"You could have woken a hibernating bear," Aragorn grumbled. The twins' faces fell, and he added quickly, "No, you did not. I was already awake."

The two of them exchanged a meaningful look while Elladan pushed the curtains to the side and held them apart to allow his twin to enter, and Aragorn felt how his previously bad mood quickly changed to abysmal. It was going to be one of _those _conversations, then.

"You know," the man went on while his brothers made their way into his room, "I do have a door. Why you insist on climbing from balcony to balcony will forever remain a mystery to me."

"It's better than any exercise program even Glorfindel can think of," Elladan told him, stopping just short of his bed. The older twin, usually so prone to just allowing himself to drop onto the bed, did no such thing and only looked at him with a narrow-eyed look of barely veiled suspicion. Elrohir stopped next to him and – consciously or unconsciously – copied his brother's stance and expression to the letter, and if Aragorn hadn't been so busy rolling his eyes, he would have smiled.

"One of these days, you will fall off and die," the ranger declared dramatically, sitting up and scooting back against the headboard. "And I won't be the one to tell _ada_."

"Typical," Elrohir commented, still not moving an inch from his position. "You would watch us plummet to our deaths and then skirt your responsibility."

"What responsibility?" Aragorn asked, arching an eyebrow. Somehow that movement awakened the powerful urge to yawn, and with more willpower than he knew he still possessed he suppressed it. "I just said I have a door in perfect working order. If you insist on behaving like a pair of crazed monkeys, it is no business of mine."

The twins looked at each other and shrugged. They finally moved; Elladan into the direction of an armchair and Elrohir into that of the footboard of the bed of all things. Any other being would have looked slightly ridiculous perching on the footboard of a bed, but Elrohir somehow managed to make it look completely normal. Aragorn looked from one dark-haired elf to the other, noticing with a sinking heart that both of them took great care not to invade his personal space.

They were serious, then.

Neither of the twins said anything for a long while, and finally Aragorn decided to end this stalemate. He was far too tired to deal with this now.  
"So, when did he tell you?"

"Who?" Elladan asked. Once more Aragorn decided that his oldest brother wasn't very adept at looking innocent.

"Please, Elladan," Aragorn said, rolling his eyes again. "I know that look the two of you are wearing. It's the 'Let's not upset the poor, fragile little human' look. I know it far too well. That can only mean that Celylith told you."

"You are not fragile, Estel," Elrohir told him. "If you were, you wouldn't have lived past your fourth year."

Aragorn only stared at him, looking not amused in the slightest, and after some half-hearted staring-back the younger twin gave in.  
"He didn't tell us."

"Oh, but you can do better than this, Elrohir," the man said, suddenly feeling rather spiteful. It was something so unusual for him that he openly hesitated for a moment. "I know he told you, otherwise you wouldn't have come walk… excuse me, climbing in here. I should have known he would. The only thing I wonder about is that he chose to break his word by talking to you, not Legolas."

"Oh, he talked to Legolas," Elladan answered. "And Legolas talked to us."

"And why is he not here, then?" Aragorn wanted to know. "He usually never misses an opportunity to tell me that I am reckless and thoughtless and arrogant."

"He thought it better if we talked to you first," the older twin said, carefully studying his face. "He didn't want to crowd you."

"How thoughtful of him."

"Stop it, Aragorn," Elladan said sharply. The young ranger's head came up. His brothers very rarely called him by the name his human parents had given him, especially when they were here in Rivendell. And when they did, it usually meant that they were very serious, angry or disappointed in him. "He is worried about you, and so are we."

"I am all right," Aragorn said automatically.

"No, you are not," Elrohir said and shook his head. He shot his twin a look that told him to restrain himself; the last thing they needed now was for Aragorn to take offence at Elladan's words and throw them out. "You are far from all right, little brother."

Aragorn frowned and looked from one of the two to the other.  
"Just what did Celylith _tell _you?" He gestured at himself. "Look at me, please! Everything is still attached – at least it was the last time I checked –, there are no bleeding wounds or broken bones or…"

"Estel," Elladan said gently. "Just stop it, please."

Aragorn fell silent and lowered his head. All anger and disappointment (he had, after all, never _really _believed that Celylith wouldn't tell Legolas or the twins about his nightmares) drained out of him, leaving him only with the pain and fear and terror that his dreams had awoken in him and the by now familiar overwhelming feeling of helplessness and exhaustion.

"I would have come to you, if I had thought there was something wrong with me," he said softly without looking up. "I really would have, you know that."

"Yes." Elrohir nodded. "You would have, but not before pretending there was nothing wrong for as long as you possibly could. You would have drawn it out as long as possible, refusing to believe that there was something wrong or that someone else could help you." He shifted a bit closer. "Don't do this, Estel. We are your brothers, and we love you. Let us help you."

Aragorn smiled and closed his eyes tiredly, leaning back against the headboard.  
"I wish it were so easy, _muindyr nín_. I really wish it were so easy."

The twins exchanged one of their looks again, as if trying to decide which one of them should speak. It didn't take long before Elrohir nodded in agreement; Elladan's bluntness could be useful at times, but he rather doubted that the man would tell them anything if Elladan demanded answers.

"Tell us what is going on, Estel," he said insistently. "Whatever it is, we will try to find a way to help you. Trust us."

"I do," Aragorn said, opening his eyes again. "Of course I do." He sighed wearily and ran a hand over his face. "What did Celylith tell you, then?"

"Technically speaking, he told Legolas."

Both Elrohir and Aragorn shot Elladan a dark look, and the man added a dark frown that would have made their father proud.  
"That hardly matters. I am sure you two interrogated him as soon as Legolas told you." The two of them looked at each other rather sheepishly. It was clear that they had done just that. "So, what did he tell you?"

"That he heard you having a nightmare and almost couldn't wake you," Elrohir responded. Aragorn didn't say anything and only stared intently at his hands, and he added, "What was it about, brother? Aberon? Gasur?"

"No." Aragorn shook his head. "No, not that. And not about Baredlen either."

"What was it, then?"

"I don't know," the young ranger said quietly, still staring at his hands.

"Please, Estel," Elladan joined the conversation. "Why didn't you tell us? You can trust us. We only wish to help you."

"Trust is not the issue here, Elladan," Aragorn said, his head coming up sharply. "I already told you, I do not know what it was! And I do not much care to find out, either!"

The twins looked at each other.  
"Estel, listen to…"

"No!" Aragorn exclaimed, fixing red-rimmed eyes on his brothers. "No, _you _listen to _me _for once! I do not know what I dream about, I – cannot – remember! And I will not try to, and you want to know why? Because all I _can _remember of the dreams is fear and pain and darkness and terror so powerful and all-encompassing that I could scream! So do not presume to tell me what to do!"

The two elves only looked faintly alarmed at his outburst.  
"How much have you slept this past week, Aragorn?" Elladan asked carefully.

Aragorn looked truly bewildered for a moment. His forehead creased into a frown as he tried to find the answer to his brother's question, as if he hadn't even once thought about it in the past seven days. Strangely enough, he really hadn't.  
"Fifteen hours?" he finally offered, unsure. "Maybe a little less."

"No, Estel, in the entire last week," Elrohir began, only to trail off quickly. "Valar, you are serious."

Aragorn laughed, a brittle sound that was so close to shattering in the air that Elrohir nearly would have sucked in a deep breath.  
"Quite serious," the young man said and nodded, still laughing.

"Now, Estel," Elladan said softly as he abandoned his seat in the armchair and sat down on the edge of his little brother's bed, their resolution not to do anything that would made the ranger feel crowded immediately forgotten in face of the man's distress. "I know we have had this talk a few times before, but humans actually need sleep. You cannot keep functioning on two hours of sleep a day."

"Oh, I know," Aragorn said, no spite in his voice. He had managed to master the urge to howl with laughter, to get it back under control before it descended into hysteria. "But it is preferable to the alternative."

Elrohir smiled sadly at his human brother, vowing to himself that he would watch him more attentively the next time – and there would be a next time, too. Estel always tried to hide things like this, especially when they involved having to share some of his problems. Why the man seemed to think that sharing his troubles with them would bother or inconvenience them, he had never understood and never would. Didn't the stubborn idiot see that they would gladly to anything in their power to help him, no matter the cost?

"We are not trying to tell you what to do, Estel," he said, keeping his voice low and gentle. It was the same tone of voice he would have used when speaking to a skittish colt – and right now, the comparison wasn't that far off. Aragorn looked as if he would keel over any minute now with exhaustion, eyes rimmed with red and his skin pale. How they had not noticed this before was beyond him; the boy was really beginning to become too stealthy for his own good. "We want to help you. You said that you can remember some things."

"Yes … no," Aragorn floundered. "There are no details, only emotions. And…"

"And?" Elladan prompted.

"And a few images here and there," the young man admitted. "But nothing that makes any sense. It's like a nightmare, only not." He shook his head and looked up at his brothers, grey eyes wide and helpless. For a moment, he looked so much like the little boy he had been not so long ago that Elrohir felt his heart constrict. "I am talking nonsense, am I not?"

"No, Estel." Elladan shook his head as well. "You aren't for once, strangely enough." He grinned but turned serious again quickly enough. "Can you describe what you saw?"

Aragorn took a deep breath, too tired to fight anymore, and closed his eyes. His eyebrows drew together as he tried to find the right words.

"There are … feelings, more than anything else. Pain – physical pain, and hopelessness and a sense of weariness so deep that it would chill you to the bones. There is also fear and terror – Valar, a terror that reaches into your heart and soul and leaves you unable to breathe or think…"

His eyes snapped open, and Elrohir could see the echoes of the emotions the man had just described reflected in the grey depths. A thought began to form at the back of his mind, but Elrohir pushed it to the side almost violently. It was too early, far too early. Estel was barely more than a child!

"Nothing more," Aragorn said quickly, avoiding his brothers' eyes.

"Estel," Elladan said softly and reached out to tip his human brother's head up. "Please, tell us. We cannot help you if we do not know what is going on."

Aragorn swallowed heavily but didn't look away, and finally he nodded shakily.  
"There are … images," he began, unconsciously biting down on his lower lip as the dream once again rose to the forefront of his mind. "They are … dark. Violent. Tainted somehow. I cannot describe it."

"What do you see?" Elrohir asked, the half-formed knowledge pressing against the back of his mind, demanding attention. "Whole scenes or just fragments?"

"Neither." The ranger shook his dark head. "It's more as if … as if they are part of a scene that has just … stopped. Everything is still and, for one perfect moment, I can see them clearly. And then they are gone. But I am not part of them; it is as if I am outside of a house and looking in through a window."

"What…" Elladan began.

"Fire," Aragorn interrupted him, wrenched his chin out of his brother's grasp and fixed tired, weary eyes on the far wall. "Always fire."

There was nothing in his gaze, as if a wall had come slamming down between the eyes and what was going on inside of him, and Elrohir realised with a small stab of fear how close to hysteria and panic Aragorn really was. He didn't understand what was going on, didn't understand what was happening to him, and was quickly being worn down by the stress these nightmares placed on him.

"And blood," Aragorn went on, his brow wrinkling once more as he tried to remember. "A lot of blood, glistering and gleaming. It is only a little in the beginning, but it grows and grows until it fills my entire vision. A darkness that is laying itself over everything, a blackness that taints and destroys everything it touches. And a star, a bright star, shining on in the darkness."

"That is all?" Elrohir prompted when the man fell quiet and bowed his head.

"It is enough," was the muffled answer. "Elbereth, it is more than enough. They feel like nightmares in a way, but I know that they are not. I have had them for over a week now, night after night, _every _night." He turned his head to look at the twins. "Every night I have the same dream if I allow myself to fall asleep. And if I wake up and manage to fall back asleep, I have the same dream all over again, right from the beginning! I don't understand it."

He drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around his knees in an unconscious gesture of comfort that made Elladan's heart ache.  
"I am not part of the dreams. It … they are not about me. They are not mine." He rested his chin on his knees, eyes large and dark. "They are not _mine_."

The twins looked at each other, silently conveying their thoughts to each other far more quickly than most people could have done it with words. Less than two seconds later Elladan shook his head, his hand automatically moving to clutch his youngest brother's shoulder. If it was a gesture meant to comfort Elladan or him, Aragorn didn't know.

"No," Elladan said, his eyes fixed on his twin. "No, Elrohir. He's too young."

"He is twenty-three, _gwanur_," Elrohir said gravely. "It would be young for a Dúnadan, but not unheard-of. Technically speaking, he is an adult."

"But Arathorn…"

"What do you mean, 'technically speaking'? I _am _an adult!"

"…was older, yes," Elrohir finished his brother's sentence, ignoring Aragorn's words. "So were most of them, if they showed signs of it at all. But do you remember Aranuir? He was…"

"Twenty-one." Elladan nodded. "You are right, I remember. And there were others who were younger still. Malvegil was barely nineteen, if I remember correctly."

They kept looking at each other for a few heartbeats, faces blank and serious. Aragorn cleared his throat and, when that didn't change anything, went as far as to actually reach out and _poke _his brothers.  
"What are you talking about?"

"Elrohir is right," Elladan answered quietly. "It would be young, but it would explain what you told us. The feeling of standing next to it, of not being involved in the dream … the disjointed images and feelings… It all fits. You are young still, too young most likely. You would not be able to control it yet."

"If one of you," Aragorn said softly, but in a steelier tone of voice than the two of them had heard him use in almost ten days, "doesn't start making sense soon, I will have to hurt you."

Neither of the twins looked overly impressed by the threat, and Elrohir only smiled at him in a way that somehow almost frightened the young man.

"I do not know why I even thought that this wouldn't happen," Elrohir said with a small, rather helpless chuckle. "It was a fool's hope, nothing more. _Ada _swears that you even look just like Elendil, and Glorfindel and all the others who knew him agree. It had to happen, sooner or later."

"Elrohir," Aragorn all but growled, "what in Eru Ilúvatar's name are you talking about?"

Elrohir didn't answer and only looked at his twin. Whatever the two of them had silently communicated about, they came to an agreement, and as one they rose from their seats with a movement so silent that it was completely inaudible.

"Come, Estel," Elladan said and took a step backward, offering Aragorn a hand up. "Get dressed. We will go see _ada_."

"Why?" Aragorn asked mutinously, only just stopping himself from crossing his arms across his chest in a gesture of defiance. He hated it when the twins got super-elf-lordly and dodged questions left and right. "Tell me what is going on here!"

"No, Estel," the older twin refused gently but firmly. Behind him, Elrohir nodded his head. "We had really better discuss this with _ada_."

The young ranger looked from one to the other, seeing that neither of them would yield an inch. Their faces could have been carved out of marble, even though he could see right through the calm mask and see the small signs of faint fear and concern the two elves were trying to hide.

Without a word or another sound of protest, Aragorn got dressed and followed his brothers out of the room.

**  
**

Even though it was still early in the morning, Elrond was already having a headache. He thought this to be particularly unfair – the least his headaches could do was appear when he had at least already done something to warrant them.

And he hadn't, not until now. He had got up somewhat earlier than usual, dressed and found himself some hot tea in the kitchen, before he had decided to use the time before breakfast to tackle the stack of reports and letters that were once more accumulating on his desk. He never knew how these things happened; he was most dutiful and persistent and didn't allow reports and lists to get away from him. But no matter what he did and how much he worked, Erestor always found more papers to stack on his desk. If it wasn't so depressing, it would actually be scary.

Elrond sat down in an armchair a good deal away from the looming desk at the back of his study, suddenly determined to draw this out a little while longer yet. Just because he had woken up early didn't mean that he had to start working, after all. It was a rather silly, childish act of rebellion, but sometimes even the oldest and wisest elves needed something like this.

The half-elf sat back in his chair, gently blowing on the hot surface of the tea. The steam was slowly drifting upward and easing the painful throbbing that had taken up residence behind his forehead. It didn't disappear, mind you; Elrond had far too much experience with headaches to expect them to do anything but stay right where they were. The only problem was that this kind of headache – the insistent, throbbing, ever-growing kind – was usually a sign that something was wrong.

When wasn't there, Elrond thought darkly to himself, sipping the hot beverage. If there was one thing his sons excelled at, it was making sure that something was wrong. Seriously wrong, even. He had kept them away from any disasters for the past two months or so – something which, admittedly, he wouldn't have been able to do without Glorfindel's help –, but that didn't mean that they weren't preparing to get into something horrible as soon as he lowered his guard or turned his back on them.

They could be devious like that. From which side of the family they got that particular trait went without saying, of course.

Maybe he was better off not thinking about just what could be wrong, he decided a moment later. There were things he most definitely was better off not knowing, and this just might be one of them. Then again, if the intensity of the headache was anything to go by, the aforementioned "this" might be something horrible indeed, and then, as the Lord of Rivendell, he really should know about it lest his beloved sons ruin his fair realm and bring dishonour and shame to his name, and…

"My lord?" a somewhat hesitant voice behind him asked, and Elrond turned around, gladly welcoming the interruption. His eyes grew considerably wider when he saw who had addressed him thus, and he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in astonishment.

"It might be the fact that a group of tiny dwarves is pounding inside my skull," he began. "It might also be the fact it is quite early and I am not completely awake yet, or the fact that I have had quite a bit to drink last night, but did you just address me in a tentative tone of voice?"

"Very funny, Elrond," Glorfindel told him, taking his friend's words for the invitation they quite clearly were not and stepping into his study. He looked at the tea in the half-elf's hands, grimaced and sat down in an armchair opposite of him. "Very, very funny indeed."

Elrond cocked his other eyebrow at his friend.  
"You? Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin? Addressing me in a hesitant tone of voice? I honestly don't know what to say."

"You already said something," Glorfindel said somewhat grumpily.

"True." Elrond nodded and took another sip of his tea. He almost would have grimaced as well, and if Glorfindel hadn't been present, he actually would have. This tea really was quite horrible now that he thought about it. "I could not contain my astonishment, I am sorry."

"I wanted to be sure that I was not disturbing you," the fair-haired elf said with a dark look. "I could have spared myself the courtesy, I see."

"Ah, don't worry about it." Elrond waved his words aside magnanimously as he set his tea down onto a small side table. Before he could stop himself, he had reached up and begun to massage the bridge of his nose in the vain hope that it might ease the headache. "What are you doing here so early anyway?"

Glorfindel didn't answer immediately, the somewhat morose expression from earlier being replaced by a look of mild worry.  
"Are you all right, Elrond?"

"I am fine." The dark-haired elf shook his head unwillingly. "It is just a headache."

"A headache or a headache?" Glorfindel asked. As cryptic as the question might have sounded to anybody else, Elrond understood perfectly well what he was asking.

"I … am not sure," Elrond said, uncertainty in his voice. "A bit of both, I think."

"Well," Glorfindel said reasonably, "you have to admit that it has been a bit boring lately."

"You are repeating yourself," Elrond told him grimly. "And I remind you again that I have been doing everything in my power to ensure that things _are _boring and uneventful. And, Elbereth be my witness, it has not been easy."

Glorfindel merely shrugged and grinned, and Elrond couldn't help but smile a little himself, even despite the headache and the faint whispers of doom that had begun to resound through his mind.  
"But you have not come here to discuss this, my friend. How can I help you?"

The golden-haired elf returned the smile.  
"You know me far too well, Elrond. If it wasn't so annoying, it would be downright disconcerting."

Elrond didn't say anything, and Glorfindel's smile slipped and finally disappeared completely. He leaned forward in his armchair and pressed the palms of his hands together, a gesture so full of uncertainty and so completely untypical for the normally so unflappable elf lord that Elrond did a double take.

"I have been thinking about this for nearly a week now," he finally began. "I know that he wouldn't mind me telling you, I know that he even expects me to do it, but still I didn't feel right doing it. I had thought that everything was returning to normal, but it isn't. I…" He trailed off helplessly and then shook his head firmly, as if to dispel the last doubts he still harboured. "I am worried about Erestor, Elrond. He is not himself."

Elrond smiled sadly.  
"That I already know, _mellon nín_. He hasn't been himself since we returned, and can you blame him?"

"No, of course not." Glorfindel shook his head. "But … he thinks we are waiting for him to make a mistake, Elrond, to fail in some way, to prove that he isn't back to normal or capable of fulfilling his duties. He almost ran out of the room when I touched him." He fell silent for a moment before lifting helpless blue eyes to look at his friend. "I had thought he was getting better."

"So had I," the dark-haired elf said, the same helplessness in his voice. "He is good at hiding what he is really feeling or thinking – and even himself, when he feels he has to." He frowned at the other elf, incredulity on his face. "He really thinks we are waiting for him to fail?"

"A part of him surely does, yes." Glorfindel nodded unhappily. "The unreasonable part maybe – if Erestor even has something like that –, but that changes little. I cornered him in the library six days ago, but allowed him to change the subject when, two minutes later, he was literally one step away from fleeing the room in a panic."

"Technically speaking, it has only been two months since we returned," Elrond reminded the other elf. "You cannot expect him to put behind him what he has seen, what has happened to him, in such short a time."

"Nor do I," the golden-haired elf lord protested. "But he has been closing himself off from us. He doesn't talk to you, or me, or anybody else. He isn't using his study anymore, opting to spend as much time as possible in the depths of the library where no one but his aides can find him. He doesn't even torture negligent elves in public anymore!"

"True." Elrond nodded thoughtfully. "He hasn't done anything to his aide who lost his reports. Or done serious damage to my sons or the others."

"Will you talk to him, my lord?" Glorfindel asked, shifting forward in his armchair. "He will confide in you."

"Oh?" Elrond asked. "Why would he confide in me when he does not confide in you?"

"Because you are his lord, and he respects you. Because you are unrivalled in the art of cornering people and making them feel guilty in order to make them tell you what you want to know. And because … because you are far better at this kind of talk than I am. I always seem to say something rash and ill-advised that ruins everything."

Elrond looked at his friend, wondering if he should tell him that that was nonsense and nothing more. Glorfindel was as good as any elf lord at "this kind of talk" – better even. He could personally remember a dozen occasions where the golden-haired elf had managed to talk him out of a black mood, or had managed to comfort him or soothe his fears and fury. Glorfindel was afraid, nothing more, afraid of what Erestor might say and that he would do or say something wrong in return.

Come to think about it, Glorfindel had been afraid for his friend ever since they had reached Rivendell. It had started earlier, actually, in the precise moment that Glorfindel had found the broken body of his friend in Acalith's cellars, and it hadn't stopped once they had reached the safety of their home. If anything, it had grown stronger and more powerful, something that had to be nigh unbearable for both elves involved.

"You cannot protect him from everything, Glorfindel, especially not from himself," he said softly. "I know how much you want to, but…"

"That is not it!" the other elf exclaimed. Elrond only looked at him, and Glorfindel relented, bowing his head. "Very well, maybe it is part of it. I … I just want him to be all right. I want everything to be as it was before. Is that so wrong of me?"

Elrond smiled and shook his head, leaning forward in his chair to lay a hand on his friend's arm.  
"No, of course not. It is completely normal. He just needs some more time for himself, Glorfindel. He is not shutting you out specifically, or turning his back on your friendship. I am sure that thought has never even crossed his mind. You know how he is – he would not want to burden you with his problems. When he is ready to talk, he will come to you."

"And what until then?" the golden-haired elf asked. For a moment, he sounded as old as he really was. "Am I supposed to watch him self-destruct until there is nothing left of the elf I once called friend? Is that what you are suggesting?"

A part of Elrond was more than a little offended at his friend's tone of voice, but a larger part was very aware of the fact that Glorfindel – yes, Glorfindel! – was only frightened.

"No, that is not what I am suggesting," he said calmly. "I am suggesting that you remember what a private person Erestor is and give him time. He needs time to come to terms with what has happened, until he has figured out for himself what he is feeling and thinking." Glorfindel only looked at him, quite clearly unconvinced, and Elrond sighed. "If it makes you feel better, I will talk to him."

"Will you?" Glorfindel's head came up immediately, a hopeful expression on his face.

"Yes," Elrond affirmed. "I will. I do not know if it will help or if he will even listen to me, but I will talk to him."

"That is all I ask," the other elf said. "And he will listen to you."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Because you can be very, very persuasive." Glorfindel frowned. "And threatening. I am not sure yet which tactic would be the more appropriate one."

"Neither am I." Elrond shook his head. "But thanks to you, I am going to find out."

Glorfindel grinned at him, something that looked a lot more genuine than when he had entered the study. A moment later his face turned serious, and he looked at Elrond earnestly.

"Thank you, Elrond. This means a lot to me."

The half-elf smiled, his hand that was still resting on the other's forearm tightening its grip slightly.  
"There is no need to thank me, _mellon iaur_. He is my friend, too."

"That much is obvious." Glorfindel nodded with a small smile. "You two are stubborn as mules, Eru be my witness. I understand it in your case, but whatever happened to Erestor to make him turn out like this?"

"What do you mean, 'in my case'?" Elrond wanted to know.

Glorfindel looked at him as if he considered the answer to that question to be painfully obvious.  
"Well, with your parents, you never really stood a chance, not to mention your grandparents and the rest of your family. And your … upbringing most likely didn't help either. Neither your parents, nor Maglor or Gil-galad were known for being particularly weak-willed, now were they?"

"They liked to insist on their positions," Elrond admitted carefully.

No matter what Fëanor's sons had done, no matter how many elves they had killed during their unreasonable quest for the Silmarils, no matter how much they had destroyed, he would never forget what Maglor had done for Elros and him. If it hadn't been for Fëanor's second-oldest son, he was very sure that neither his twin nor he would have survived the Sacking of the Havens of Sirion. None of the sons of Fëanor had been too scrupulous when it had come to leaving helpless children behind in the wild; his own uncles, Elwing's brothers, were proof of that.

Glorfindel was studying him carefully, and a second later the forearm he had been gripping had extricated itself from his grip and the golden-haired elf was grasping his hand tightly.

"I did not mean to insult your parents or the High King," the older elf told him. "Or," Elrond could almost hear how he gritted his teeth, "Maglor. I only…"

"Do not worry, my friend, I took no offence," Elrond assured him. "They were stubborn, all of them, and no doubt about it."

He knew how hard it was for Glorfindel to say anything remotely positive about any of the sons of Fëanor. He had never forgiven them for destroying the Havens of Sirion and for slaughtering so many of their inhabitants. Many of the Gondolindrim had fled there after the destruction of their home, and Glorfindel took it as an added insult that the people that had survived the fall of his city, the people he had died to protect, had been killed by their own kind over some ill-fated jewels. He knew, however, that Elrond's feeling for Maglor at least, the one who had protected him and his brother and had – at least for a while – treated them with kindness and even love, were ambiguous to say the least, and was always careful to speak about him in neutral terms.

Glorfindel smiled at him, tearing him out of his thoughts, and Elrond gladly left behind dark memories full of pain and fear and death. He had been so young then and so utterly terrified, and if not for Elros' calming presence who had always been at his side, he was sure he would have never reached maturity.

For a few moments, it was silent, but then Elrond once again took up his tea – he had made it because it was supposed to help with his headache, not because it was particularly tasty, after all – and looked out over the awakening valley with a smile.  
"That wasn't so bad. I am not sure it warranted this headache."

Glorfindel's eyes that had been taking in the sunrise immediately focussed on his face.  
"Is it not better yet?"

Elrond grimaced slightly.  
"Not really," he said, deliberately downplaying the intensity of the pain. "Are you sure you aren't hiding something from me? Something like an orc invasion, the twins getting their hands on more paint, young Celylith finding himself a new pet, a Nazgûl's fell beast that has injured a hind leg and has come for treatment…?"

"Well, I did hear an unusually large thump a while ago," Glorfindel said, wrinkling his brow. "That might have been the fell beast making a crash landing, so that might be true. As to the rest … not to my knowledge." He gave his friend a slightly dubious look. "There might be nothing wrong at all."

Elrond was opening his mouth to say something, but in this exact moment a knock sounded on the door. The two elf lords turned around, and Elrond quickly saw who had announced his presence in this way: A young elf dressed in the attire of a warrior, complete with long grey cloak, sword girded at his hip and a bow and quiver slung over his back.

"Forgive me for intruding, my lords," he said, bowing deeply before the two elf lords. "Commander Meneldir sends me."

Elrond exchanged a quick look with Glorfindel. Meneldir was one of Captain Isál's commanders, an experienced, sometimes rather solemn elf whose patrol was right now stationed to the south, somewhere close to the Bruinen if he wasn't completely mistaken. Motioning the warrior to step into the room, Elrond sat up straighter and did his best to push the very bad feeling that was beginning to creep up on him to the side.

"Yes, young one. Why is your commander sending you?"

The warrior stopped a few feet away from them, his face serious.  
"Commander Meneldir and two of my comrades are following me, my lord; they should be here in about half an hour. He sent me ahead to give word of his impending arrival." He took a deep breath. "They are escorting a man, my lord. One of the Dúnedain."

"A dúnadan? Travelling alone?" Elrond repeated, frowning openly. It wasn't unusual for rangers to visit Rivendell – the Last Homely House always welcomed travellers, and especially his brother's people –, but they seldom arrived during the summer. And rarer still it was to have them arrive alone and – if Meneldir's actions were anything to go by – in a hurry. "Did he say what the matter was?"

"No, my lord." The young elf shook his head. "We spotted him as soon as he set foot in our sector and challenged him when we saw who he was. He was most courteous, but also very insistent. His business is urgent, he said, and concerns only him and you, my lord. He would say no more."

Elrond looked at the younger elf thoughtfully and finally shook his head.  
"Very well. We will find out what his business is soon enough. You can wait in the kitchens for Commander Meneldir's arrival; if you are lucky, the cooks have already begun with the preparations for breakfast." The younger elf took this for the dismissal it was and bowed, his eyes lighting up at the mention of breakfast, but before he could leave, Elrond called him back. "Oh, and please make sure that the ranger is brought here as soon as he has rested from his journey."

"I doubt that he would wish to rest before seeing you, my lord," the warrior said with a small shrug. "He seemed to consider his mission to be most urgent."

Elrond nodded.  
"Then have him brought here as soon as he arrives."

The younger elf nodded and, another bow later, disappeared out of the door. Elrond looked after him for a moment before he fixed faintly accusing eyes on his blond friend.  
"See what you've done. You just _had _to say it, hadn't you?"

Glorfindel returned the look, adding a good measure of hurt innocence to it.  
"Now, be reasonable, my friend. This can hardly be my fault. All I said was that there 'might' be nothing wrong. Not even the most ill-meaning Vala could misinterpret that as a challenge."

Elrond was about to tell him just what he thought about that theory when, for the second time this morning, he was robbed of an opportunity to express his thoughts. From one moment to the next, the Elrohir swept into the room, and he most definitely did not bother knocking.

"_Ada_. Glorfindel," he said with a small, respectful bow. "Excuse us for bothering you at this hour, but this cannot wait."

Behind him, his twin and Aragorn came into view, Elladan walking more closely to his human brother than was his wont and both of them looking more than a little frazzled. While Elladan was only a little pale, however, Aragorn looked horrible, thoroughly bewildered and as if he had just fallen out of bed. There were dark, deep circles under the young man's eyes, and his skin looked so waxy that the healer in Elrond wondered how he was even still standing. The father in him wondered a moment later how he could have missed the state his youngest son was in for so long.

"What is it?" he asked, immediately standing to his feet and scanning his sons for any signs of injuries. "Are you all right?"

Glorfindel, too, got up from his seat, eyeing the younger elves and the man with a faintly guilty expression, as if this was all his fault. Elrohir, however, only shook his head, looking strangely sad.

"No, _ada_. You had better talk with Estel."

Elrond wanted to ask for an explanation, but then, when he looked at his youngest son and the barely hidden fear and confusion in his eyes and added to that the fatigue and exhaustion on his face and his recent too-cheerful behaviour, sudden understanding washed over him. And suddenly, the sadness on Elrohir's face made perfect, chillingly clear sense.

Aragorn was still standing just inside his study as if rooted to the spot, pained confusion on his face, and didn't even move when the twins and Glorfindel soundlessly left the room and closed the door behind them.

"Yes," Elrond finally said heavily and gestured his human son to come closer, sitting down in his armchair again. "I suppose I better had."

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TBC...**

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_mellon nín - my friend  
ada - father (daddy)  
muindyr nín - my brothers  
gwanur - (twin) brother  
mellon iaur - old friend_

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Yes, well, I guess THAT is going to be a nice, relaxing talk… Anyway, stay tuned for it and the arrival of out friendly Ranger messenger! I am SURE he is THRILLED to be in this story… Okay, I've got to stop capitalising everything. Ah well, I am a drama queen at heart, I fear. I hope all of you have a few nice, relaxing days! Reviews are, as always, loved, cherished and treated with the respect and adoration of early Christmas presents. They really are.

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**Additional A/N: **

Sorry guys, but The Chaos that is usually called Christmas in my family has me firmly in its grip. I will therefore forego the usual group email and will reply to each review individually. It might take some time to get them all out, but this way I will at least lose less people to FF-net's evil machinations. And no, I am not exaggerating. Not a bit.


	4. Dreams And Reality

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**_-Sorry guys, this is just a repost. I had a lot of trouble with this chapter and am hoping this will solve it. Knowing ff-net, it probably won't. Can't blame a girl for trying, though.-_**

**Gods, sorry, I am late again. I caught some nasty bug in Dublin (or that's what I think) and am really sick now. I still went out on New Year's Eve, which was probably not the most clever thing to do either. Anyway, we had fun, watched the fireworks and consumed far too much alcohol. Just like any other year, I guess. •g• Be that as it may, I'm sorry for posting a day later than I'd wanted to, I just really didn't leave my bed yesterday. You're still getting the next update on Tuesday, so we'll be right back on track. •looks at nasty bug• You hear that?**

**I hope you all had a very nice Christmas and had fun at New Year's Eve. The weather was quite pleasant in Portugal and it's not been too bad here either, so I am not complaining. I still have a few things to do for my classes, but it's all working out somehow. So I am happy. •beams happily to prove the point• What did I want to say ... oh, yes. I have decided that the Rangers most likely lived in the Angle and close to it, most likely also in Minhiriath and perhaps also a bit further away. That is my interpretation of the clues Tolkien left us (which is essentially something along the lines of "_No other Men beside those of Bree had settled dwellings so far west, or within a hundred leagues of the Shire. But in the wild lands beyond Bree there were mysterious wanderers._**_**(...) The roamed at will southwards, and eastwards even as far as the Misty Mountains; but they were now few and rarely seen.**_**"(FotR, Ch. 9: At the Sign of the Prancing Pony), so if anybody knows different or better or just wants to discuss the question, they are very welcome to send me an email or two.**

**I must also apologise for the lack of Legolas in this chapter. The poor elf has been neglected lately, but this time I am trying to move the story along at a faster pace than usual and wanted to have the ranger explain his side of things. So, even though he isn't in this chapter, never fear: He will be in the next one and I will try not to exclude him again in the future. •pats strangely unaffected-looking elven prince on the head• Poor baby.**

**Okay, this was quite long, so now on to the story! Aragorn has a discussion with Elrond who tries to explain a few things, Meneldir is trying to decide which course of action is the right one, Isál makes a (nervous) appearance and the ranger is introduced! He also has a talk with Elrond, which makes no one really happy. It's a gift, I guess. •g•**

**Enjoy and review, please!**

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Chapter 4

For several minutes it was completely silent, the only sound to be heard the chirping of the birds sitting outside in the trees close to the window. Aragorn had sat down in the armchair recently vacated by Glorfindel and was careful not to look at his father. Whether it was because he was already suspecting what was going on – and a part of him surely was – or because he just didn't really want to discuss this, Elrond didn't know, but whatever the reason, he felt how his heart clenched in pain.

He had never wanted it to start for Aragorn like this, when he was frightened and confused and didn't know what was going on. His foster son wasn't stupid or naïve, however, so he must have some idea of what was going on and what his dreams really were – rationally, that was. People, however, were not prone to reacting rationally when faced with night terrors vicious and horrible enough to keep them awake for (if he were to judge by the young ranger's appearance) at least a week, and so it didn't really surprise him when all he could see on his son's face was fear and confusion.

Elrond sighed inwardly. No matter how many times he had already done this, it never became any easier. Telling someone that his or her life had just essentially been turned upside down was never easy, not even when that someone was one of the Dúnedain, and when the person in question was one of his own children…

The half-elf shook his head. He might have been anticipating and dreading this moment since the moment he had first laid eyes on his human son, but that didn't mean that anything, anything at all, about this situation was easy.

In the end, it was Aragorn who broke the oppressive silence. The young man raised his head from where he was staring at his tightly folded hands and looked at him, silver-grey eyes dark with uncertainty and a lingering touch of terror.

"It was a vision, wasn't it?"

"I do not know, my son," Elrond said truthfully. "But if your brothers believe so … they are rarely wrong about such things. And you are…"

"Yes, I know," Aragorn interrupted his father, something that was a very clear sign for his distress. Under normal circumstances, neither his brothers nor he would have dreamed about doing such a thing. "I am apparently old enough."

"Your father was older," Elrond began carefully, "and so was Arador, but that doesn't mean anything. Your mother's gift was strong, and so was her family's. It could have influenced the development of your own, but there is no way to be certain. It is hardly an exact science."

Aragorn had a sudden, very frightening mental picture of him being surrounded by scholars who demanded that he have a vision right now so they could monitor it. He quickly shook his head, trying to push back the hysteria that was once again rising inside of him. At least this was an explanation, he told himself firmly. It wasn't the kind he had hoped for, but at least it meant that he wasn't going insane.

With a weary sigh, he allowed his head to fall back against the back of the armchair, and had to employ most of his self-control in order not fall asleep immediately. After several heartbeats, a cool hand that touched his cheek brought him somewhat back to his senses, and if he hadn't been tired to the bone, he would have smiled. It could have been meant as a gesture of comfort or a means for Elrond to check his temperature – the healer in the half-elf wouldn't allow him to take even the slightest risk that it might be something else that was wrong with him.

"How long has this been going on, Aragorn?"

Everybody seemed to be using his human name today, the ranger decided testily.  
"A week," he still answered, not opening his eyes. "Maybe eight days, or nine. I cannot remember anymore."

For a second, it was completely silent, and Aragorn didn't even have to open his eyes to know that Elrond was frowning at him and his inability to remember something as simple as that.

"Over a week, then?" his foster father repeated, sounding rather incredulous. "Have you slept at all?"

"Of course I have," Aragorn said, opening an eye to give his father an emotionless stare. "Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation, because I would have turned into an incomprehensible, gibbering pile of goo on the floor."

Elrond gave him a look that made the man automatically duck his head.  
"I know the limits of your people, Estel, as well as you do or even better. A dúnadan can last a week with very little or almost no sleep. Not much longer, though."

"Yes," the young man agreed with a small, jittery laugh. "I have come to realise that."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Elrond finally asked softly. "You can always come to me if there is something wrong, Estel, you know that. At any time of day or night."

"To tell you what, father?" Aragorn asked, raising his head and looking the half-elf in the eye. "I had no idea what was going on, I _still _have no idea what is going on! Valar, my mind is barely working quickly enough to keep up with this conversation, and you expect me to actually come up with something sensible? And what should I have told you? '_Ada_, I am having the same nightmare over and over again, but, even though it is not _my _nightmare, it is terrifying enough so that I need several minutes to figure out where I am when I awake or who I even am, oh, and I think I might be going insane'?" He laughed again. "You are right. I actually could say something like that right now."

Elrond winced as if he had been struck, asking himself for the umpteenth time just where he had _been_ this past week. How had he not seen this, how had _none _of them seen this?

"You are not going insane, Estel," he told the young man and reached out to touch one of his hands. "Surely you know that."

"No, _ada_." Aragorn shook his head solemnly. "Right now, I know nothing for certain. All I know is that I see things I shouldn't, I _couldn't _possibly see, things I have no business of seeing. Things that are not mine, that have nothing to do with me or even with my darkest and most horrible fears. They are not _mine_, don't you understand? Doesn't any of understand how … how wrong that is?"

Exhaustion, confusion and fear were finally beginning to wear down the shields the young ranger had so tightly thrown up around him, and Elrond could almost watch how his control unravelling before his very eyes. Without consciously deciding to do so, Elrond moved over to his foster son's side and pulled him forward into a tight embrace. Aragorn was too weary and probably too shaken to resist, and Elrond bit his lip when he felt how rigid and tense the young man was in his arms. He could no longer remember how he had felt when he'd had his first vision, but he supposed that without his twin's presence he would have been terrified as well.

"Of course I understand, _ion nín_," he whispered to the young man he still held firmly enveloped in his arms. "Elbereth, of course I do! That is what makes them so horrible: They are not yours, not your memories or thoughts or subconscious projections. You witness things your mind can not classify or understand, and you feel emotions that are not yours. And in the beginning everything is so jumbled and confusing and terrifying that you can almost forget where the dream ends and where you begin, and what you are feeling and what the people in your vision. Believe me, Estel, I know."

"I have had … feelings … before, and dreams," Aragorn said softly, his voice slightly muffled by his foster father's robes. "But the dreams were about things that concerned me, or those I care about. And even when I … foresaw … something, it was more like a regular dream, only more insistent and real. But they were mine, not someone else's." He was silent for a moment. "I thought it would always be like that. I didn't count on anything like this."

"No one ever does," Elrond said with a small smile. It was the truth. He'd had this conversation with many of the heirs of his brother, and all of those who had had visions as strong as Aragorn's had been shocked by their intensity.

"I … I didn't know," Aragorn went on, weakly disentangling himself from his father's grasp. "I never imagined you – or the twins – having this kind of visions. I do not what I was thinking. I think I wasn't thinking at all. What a very naïve thing to do, I know."

The dark-haired elf took a deep breath.  
"It is not always like this, Estel," he told the young ranger. "Real visions like you had are rare, even for me. Feelings, dreams – yes, those are common. I have got used to them over the past millennia. For the twins they are rarer still; Elrohir is more attuned to such things than Elladan, but they both have them from time to time. Sometimes I truly do not know if I gave them a blessing or a curse."

"Right now it does not feel like a blessing," the man admitted.

"I can imagine that," Elrond said with a small smile that quickly disappeared again when he looked at his human son's haggard and pale features. "Can you tell me what you saw, Estel? The only way to deal with these things is to try and interpret them, to try and find out what they mean."

Sometimes, of course, you didn't figure out the meaning at all, or only when it was far too late to change anything or do anything about it. That was something the half-elf was not planning on telling the man; he was already shaken enough as it was.

"I … I do not know, _ada_," Aragorn said in a small voice. "The images are so … so dark and twisted that I cannot … I simply cannot…"

"Estel," the half-elven healer said, laying a hand on his son's forearm and squeezing gently. "Breathe. Just close your eyes and breathe, and tell me what you saw. Don't think; don't try to remember too hard. The images are there, at the back of your mind. I know that you do not want to think about them, that you do not want to relive what you see night after night, but it is the only way."

Aragorn didn't look too convinced, but he obediently closed his eyes and did his best to follow his father's instructions.

"There is fire," he finally said softly. "It … it is confusing; it looks like something like a campfire and something more, like … simply fire. There is blood, Valar, so much of it, thick drops that flow together and form a stream that never ends, that never _will _end…"

"Estel," Elrond interrupted him, noticing the way the young man's body tensed again. "Be calm and breathe. Even though they are not your memories, not your nightmares, they cannot harm you. You are safe here, and I would never let any harm come to you."

The man took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes closing even more tightly, but he paused for a moment, clearly attempting to bring order into his chaotic thoughts.

"There is also pain," he went on. "No, that is not the right word for it. It is anguish, both mental and physical, and so strong that it steals your breath away. Then there are the feelings: Fear and terror and anger, too, all so intense that they almost seem unreal, like something no living man could withstand and live with." His eyes opened with a start. "Someone died, _ada_. I do not know who, or if it is the one who felt these emotions, but someone is dead. I just know it."

Elrond nodded slowly, wishing for the first time that he could believe that his youngest son was wrong or lying.  
"There is something else, though, isn't there?"

"Yes," Aragorn admitted. "A … star, or something that looks like a star. It's just that … I don't think it is real. I cannot describe it better, or understand it. I do not know what it means. I do not know what any of it means!"

Elrond sighed, finding that he could hardly bear the hopeful look his son shot him, as if he expected him to have all the answers.  
"There is no easy way to answer that, Estel. There is no such thing as a book to help you interpret dreams or visions."

"Then why do I have them anyway?" Aragorn exclaimed, confusion and fear turning into anger. It was a reaction Elrond had been expecting, and so his expression didn't change a bit at the man's sudden outburst. "Why does anybody have them? What good does it do if you cannot change anything you saw?"

"I did not say that," Elrond said calmly. "I said that it is not easy to interpret visions of any kind and especially visions as fragmentary as the one you just described; I did not say it was impossible."

Aragorn looked at him for several moments before he lowered his head and took a deep breath. Elrond didn't have to possess any foresight whatsoever to know that the young man was wishing for a hole to hide in.

"I am sorry, _ada_. I did not mean to criticise you. I do not know what came over me."

"Well, I do," the half-elf retorted with a small smile. When Aragorn looked at him, clearly expecting to be scolded, he added, "You are exhausted, Estel. You haven't slept more than two or three hours a night for over a week, and when you slept, you were awoken by nightmares. One does not need any training in the healing arts to know that that is anything but restful. It is a miracle that you can still stand."

"Well, technically speaking, I _am _sitting at the moment."

Elrond gave him a dark look.  
"You have been spending far too much time with Elladan. Or with Glorfindel, or with both, even though the mind boggles at that particular thought."

For the first time in longer than Aragorn could actually remember, he had to smile – a real smile, that was, not one he plastered on in order not to make anybody suspicious.  
"Elladan and Glorfindel, in one room, when they're in that kind of mood – my mind does more than boggle at that. It tries to convulse and sneak out of my head through my ears."

Elrond smiled as well, but his eyes remained dark and solemn. He did not intend to let the man get away with trying to change the topic.  
"I am sure about it. But I am serious, Estel. You are exhausted to the bone. We can talk about this once you are rested."

"Forgive me, _ada_, but there is no way at all I can rest before I know what is happening." Aragorn shook his head. "Half an hour will not make a difference now."

The half-elven lord nodded slowly. He hadn't expected anything else, mind you; if Aragorn was one thing, it was stubborn and determined.

"I do not know what to tell you, my son. You know that some of your people possess the gift – or curse – of foresight, and my brother's line more than the rest of the Dúnedain. For some of those that possess this ability, it manifests as 'feelings', as you described it; just vague notions about one thing or other that help them detect danger or make decisions. Others have dreams you have already been having for some time, especially when it concerns their family or those they care about. And some – very, very few of them – have 'real' visions like the one you had, either in the form of nightmares or while they are awake."

"What a lovely concept," Aragorn muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is there anything to do about it?"

"To stop it, you mean?" Elrond asked, and the man nodded. "No, _ion nín_. You were born like this; it isn't something you can turn off or on. No one can foretell if these visions will fade, if you will have them for only a short time, or if they will occur more often and regularly. But…"

"But?"

"But," Elrond repeated, suppressing a weary sigh, "if your father's gift is anything to go by, and your mother's and her family's … I do not think it will fade. You are Isildur's heir and therefore Elros', Aragorn. Except for a handful of exceptions, all of your line have had some … abilities, some stronger and some weaker. Even amongst the lesser lines there have been many cases of men and women with strong gifts, and your mother's line is anything but a lesser one. So no, I do not think it will go away."

"I … I cannot deal with this," Aragorn whispered hoarsely, his hand wandering from the bridge of his nose up to his forehead. "I hardly know what is real anymore, what I am feeling and what the people in my dreams do. I cannot sleep, I do not dare to sleep, and my head is beginning to feel as if it wants to explode."

"That is, unfortunately, another side effect." The elf nodded solemnly. "How bad is the headache?"

Aragorn looked uncomfortable for a few seconds, clearly wondering if he should employ a tactical lie or not. He finally came to the conclusion that he had neither the energy nor was sufficiently clear-minded to even try it, and finally allowed himself to start massaging his temples.  
"Quite bad."

"On a scale from One to Six that would be…?" Elrond prompted. He knew that he had been driving his sons to the brink of madness with his scale, but it was the only way to somehow figure out in how much pain they really were. _If _they were telling the truth, of course.

"About a Four," Aragorn answered. His foster father didn't say anything and only looked at him, and he added with a sigh, "Or maybe a Five."

Elrond would almost have blinked. Getting Aragorn (or the twins or Prince Legolas) to admit that anything hurt worse than Four out of Six was nearly impossible. The headache really had to be quite spectacular.

"We can do this later, Aragorn. I will ask Elladan to give you something to help you sleep. We can continue this conversation once you are rested."

"Will it always be like this?" Aragorn asked, ignoring his elven father's words.

Elrond didn't have to ask what the ranger was talking about.  
"No." He shook his head. "This is your first 'real' vision, Estel. With time and practice, you will get used to them, when your mind figures out a way to process them."

"And until then this dream, this vision, is being shown to me night after night," Aragorn said bitterly. "And I can't do anything about it or, apparently, understand what it means."

"Not necessarily." Elrond shook his head. "As I said, it will get better; no one can say how quickly. And sometimes, they fade after a certain amount of time. Sometimes it helps when you talk about it with someone."

"I am sensing a 'But'."

"Yes." The elf lord smiled humourlessly. "But sometimes, they do not."

"Wonderful." Aragorn allowed his head to fall back against the armchair, barely noticing the way it connected with the wooden back. "Just wonderful."

"I am sorry, Estel. What you described could be virtually anything, anywhere. Unless there is something else you can tell me…"

"No." The man shook his head quickly, his face paling considerably. The mere thought of having to relive the dream once more was enough to make cold sweat accumulate on his forehead. "No, there is nothing else. I am sorry."

"Don't be, my son. It is rare to remember so many details so clearly the first few times." Aragorn didn't say anything and closed his eyes, and Elrond once again leaned forward, his fingertips touching the young man's white cheek. "Please, Estel. You are exhausted. Let us continue this conversation once you are rested."

For several moments, Aragorn wanted to refuse. In the end, bone-deep exhaustion made the decision for him, when he realised that he could hardly keep his jumbled thoughts together.  
"That … potion you mentioned," he began softly, not opening his eyes. "Will it make me dream?"

"No, Estel," Elrond assured him with a smile. "No dreams. I promise."

"Then I will go," Aragorn said and opened his eyes with an effort. "I don't think I can stay awake for much longer anyway."

Elrond's smile widened and he was about to get up to fetch one of the twins, but before he could even move half an inch, a knock sounded on the door before it was opened. Elladan poked his head into the room, concern clearly visible on his face. Not for the first time Elrond asked himself just when his sons had learned to read his mind.

"_Ada_?" the twin asked softly.

"We will continue this at a later time," the elf lord said. "Estel needs to rest undisturbed for at least six hours."

Elladan processed what his father told him and quickly came to the right conclusion.  
"I see," he said, stepping into the room and nodding at his father. "I will make sure nothing disturbs the rest, and I would be willing to bet that Elrohir is already preparing the potion."

"I am … right here, you know," Aragorn protested weakly.

"I know, little brother." Elladan smiled at him and grasped his arm. The fact that the man allowed himself to be more or less manhandled into a standing position and led into the direction of the door was testament to his weariness. "I know. Let's get you back to your room, shall we?"

Aragorn only mumbled something under his breath that could have been interpreted as words of thanks or a curse. Elladan, who seemed to be in a highly optimistic mood today, seemed to take it as words of thanks, only grasped his elbow more tightly either in order to make sure that his human brother would follow him or to steady him as he swayed on his feet. Before they could leave the room, however, Elrond called out the man's name, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Estel? That star you saw, what did it look like?"

The man blinked as he turned around to face his father. It took his addled brain several moments before he could formulate an answer, and Elladan exchanged a knowing look with his father over his shoulder. The man's last resources of strength were beginning to desert him, and if they didn't get him to lie down soon, he would collapse where he stood.

"It was … bright," Aragorn began hesitantly, closing his eyes as he tried to conjure a more detailed image. "There was light emanating from it, in long … long beams. Like rays."

"I see." Elrond nodded.

"Why?" Aragorn asked, slight suspicion in his eyes.

"I am not entirely sure yet," the half-elf answered. To somebody who didn't know him well, he would have appeared completely calm and unaffected, but both his sons could clearly hear the well-hidden, evasive timbre in his voice. "I will tell you when I know more. Elladan…"

"Yes, _ada_." The twin bowed his head obediently and gently turned his brother around towards the door. "Come, Estel. We shouldn't keep Elrohir waiting too long, and besides, if you collapse – which, by my calculations, will be happening in about three minutes –, I am not going to carry you."

Aragorn made an undecipherable noise in the back of his throat, but allowed himself to be led out of the door.  
"Five minutes at the very least."

"Four, not a minute more."

'"Five. Would you like to bet on that?"

"Don't even think about accepting that bet, Elladan," Elrond told his oldest son as the door closed behind the two of them. "Your brother is not thinking clearly at the moment."

"Of course not, _ada_. The thought had never crossed my mind."

Another incredulous grunt could be heard from the young man as he was being led down the corridor. Elrond's smile that had spread over his features at his sons' banter quickly faded, however, and he leaned back into his armchair. This had been bound to happen; no matter what Estel seemed to hope, he had never had any doubts that the man would develop the abilities his father and the vast majority of his family had possessed. And he had never thought that they would be limited to random and rare dreams or vague feelings.

Elrond took a deep breath and reached for his tea. The way this day was starting, he would probably need it.  
**  
** **  
** **  
**  
Meneldir stopped his horse in front of the stables and dismounted, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the stiffness in his back and neck. He honestly didn't understand how wood-elves did it; he had never enjoyed spending any amount of time in a tree – a dislike that made patrol duty the tiniest bit bothersome. He knew that that little quirk of his was unusual even for a Noldo, but he simply couldn't help himself. Trees were a wonderful, beautiful creation of Eru Ilúvatar and possessed a multitude of positive characteristics, he was more than willing to admit that, but they were simply not very comfortable.

Wood-elves had to be part monkey, he decided only half in jest as he led his horse inside and handed the reins to a stable hand. Or spiders, or woodpeckers – ah, no, maybe not woodpeckers. Rumour had it that there were no more woodpeckers in Mirkwood since they had all been eaten by the black squirrels. It was a claim that was firmly being upheld by Prince Legolas, and no one had until now managed to get a conflictive statement out of Lord Celylith.

The blond commander sidestepped one of the two warriors he had brought with him, waited for him to pass him and made his way out of the stable. How Silvan Elves managed to spend a large part of their lives in trees was not nearly as interesting as the question of just why a ranger would travel to Rivendell alone and in such a hurry. He was as curious as the next elf, and would – to himself, mind you – admit that he had been wondering about that particular question ever since they had encountered the man in the woods.

The ranger in question was still standing outside, a good ten or fifteen yards from the entrance to the stable, and was unhurriedly and methodically unloading his horse. One of his saddlebags was already sitting on the ground next to him, looking dusty and a little worse for wear. He had also removed the quiver and long bow he'd had been carrying on his back and was right now in the process of removing the second saddle bag. The man's dark hood was thrown back, exposing dark hair that reached past his shoulders.

Meneldir hesitated for a moment, curiosity and proper protocol warring inside of him, but in the end the former won. And besides, he reasoned, it would hardly be polite if he ignored his lord's guest and let him unload his horse all by himself, now would it be?

"Can I assist you?" he asked, stepping up next to the man and offering him his most harmless smile. After their experiences in Aberon and Donrag, he had to remind himself that not all of the Second People were like the inhabitants of these towns, and that the attitude that had served him so well there – namely scowling and threatening anybody with violence who would listen – was quite unnecessary in this case.

It wouldn't have impressed the ranger anyway, he reasoned. If the few he had met and Estel were anything to go by, it would take a lot more than a scowling elf to strike fear in the hearts of any of them.

"No, Commander, but thank you," the man replied in the same, polite tone of voice. His Sindarin was accented but still very good, his grammar and vocabulary flawless. "I am quite all right."

Meneldir shifted uneasily – he had never had the patience for anything resembling diplomacy – and fumbled for something to say.  
"We have not yet been formally introduced, I believe. My name is Meneldir, son of Celefaer."

The ranger carefully set down the second saddle bag before he turned towards him and gave him a slight bow.  
"Greetings, Meneldir, son of Celefaer. I am Haldar, son of Baranor, at your service."

"I am pleased to meet you, Haldar." Meneldir's smile grew more genuine very quickly. "If there is nothing else you need, I suggest we leave your horse in the capable hands of the stable hands. They do not appreciate being kept waiting."

"I have not lived this long by antagonising people with access to as many pitchforks as they want," Haldar told the elf with a smile of his own. "I have everything I need, Master Elf."

He led his horse over to the entrance to the stable and handed the reins over to one of the grooms with a few words of thanks and another courteous bow. In a few seconds, he had returned to Meneldir's side and had gathered his belongings. While the smile was still on his face, his dark eyes were reserved and serious.

"I do not wish to appear overly forward, Commander, but I have my orders. I must see Lord Elrond as quickly as possible. It is a matter of urgency and some importance also, I dare say."

"I understand." Meneldir bowed his head in understanding. "Come with me, please. I will endeavour to discover whether he can see you now."

They turned and hadn't taken more than a few steps into the direction of the main house when a voice made the elf stop in his tracks, calling his name. It was his superior, Meneldir quickly saw, who was striding towards them with large steps. Captain Isál was wearing a slightly wild-eyed expression that most inhabitants of Rivendell were familiar with by now.

"Commander!" the dark-haired elf exclaimed, coming to a stop next to them a few seconds later. "I have been looking for you."

"You have found me, sir," Meneldir answered respectfully, careful not to smile at his captain's expression. While Isál was usually a very fair and cheerful elf, he was also highly stressed at the moment and prone to unpredictable reactions. "May I present Haldar, son of Baranor, a messenger from the Dúnedain, who has come to speak with our lord." He looked at the man. "Haldar, this is Captain Isál, the captain of my patrol."

"My lord." The ranger inclined his head.

"Dúnadan." Isál mimicked his movement. "Welcome to Imladris." He quickly returned his attention to the other elf in front of him. "I met the warrior you sent ahead, Meneldir. Lord Elrond is ready to see our visitor at his earliest convenience."

The two elves turned to look at the ranger, something that would have intimidated most mortals, but Haldar only bowed his head again. He was clearly un-intimidated.  
"I am ready when Lord Elrond is, my lords."

"Wonderful." Isál smiled brightly and quite falsely. "Commander, will you show Master Haldar the way? Lord Elrond is in his study."

"Of course, sir," Meneldir acquiesced. Isál smiled again but didn't move from the spot. There was an expression on his face that was quite unreadable, but still rather disconcerting. "Is there anything else, Captain?"

Isál shot the man standing next to the other elf a quick look, but apparently quickly decided that his presence was inevitable. Risking Lord Elrond's wrath for having broken the laws of hospitality would be far worse than whatever was plaguing him at the moment.

"Have you by any chance seen Dólvorn, Meneldir?"

"Lady Gaerîn's brother, sir?" Meneldir asked quite unnecessarily. Isál looked at him in a way that suddenly made the blond elf glad for the ranger's presence, and he swallowed quickly. "No, sir, I have not. I thought he had already left Imladris."

"No, unfort…" The captain interrupted himself and tried again. "No, he has not. Lord Elrohir managed to … reassign… him to the scouting mission leaving the day after tomorrow."

At that particular prospect, Isál beamed like the morning sun that was slowly making her way over the horizon. The dark-haired captain had been almost pathetically grateful when he had heard that Lord Elrohir had indeed managed to ensure that his future brother-in-law would be leaving on a scouting mission for a few weeks. It did pay to have connexions, that much was sure, and not only Meneldir was convinced that, if Lady Gaerîn's and Captain Isál's first child should happen to be male, he would be gifted with the younger twin's name.

Meneldir shuddered at the thought of two Elrohirs running around Rivendell, especially if the new one should take on character traits of the older one.

"Well – no," the blond elf finally said, realising that his superior was still waiting for an answer. "I am sorry, sir. I have not seen him."

"Good," Isál told him, shooting a quick look over his shoulder. "Very good. If you should, you did not see me, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Meneldir nodded obediently. He had got used to such requests by now. "I did not see you, have no idea where you might be, have nothing but the highest respect for you and your immaculate character and nothing but scorn and incredulity for he who would suggest that you are anything but the paragon of virtue, chivalry and moral excellence."

If Isál noticed the irony that tinged the other elf's words, he did not comment on it.  
"Excellent," he said. He didn't exactly rub his hands, but it was a close thing. "I will be going, then. Commander," he turned to nod at the man, "Master Ranger. It has been a pleasure meeting you."

"Captain." The man nodded back.

With a last, somewhat shaky smile, Isál turned around and was gone. Meneldir watched him go for a few moments before he turned to their guest, an apologetic expression laying itself over his face when he saw the man's questioningly raised eyebrow.

"He is getting married in a little more than fifty days," he said in a manner of explanation.

The ranger only raised his other eyebrow. Amongst the Dúnedain, it was apparently unusual to turn into a mental wreck before one's wedding.  
"I … see."

It was clear that he did in fact not see. Meneldir almost hung his head. That figured; he got to escort a guest to the Last Homely House only to scare him away by exposing him to the madmen who populated their fair valley. Lord Elrond would kill him.

"The captain has been … stressed lately," he tried again. "Trouble with the lady's family," he finished lamely.

This time, the ranger smiled at him.  
"I think I understand what you mean. My mother-in-law wasn't too thrilled about her daughter's choice in husbands, either. She would have preferred someone who stayed at home and tended the herds and fields, I think."

"Understandable." Meneldir nodded while he began to lead the ranger over to the main house. "If you stay long enough, I might tell you the story of how my mother almost married me off to Lady Gaer… a most formidable _elleth_."

The man's thin smile disappeared as quickly as it had come and he shook his head.  
"I doubt that, Master Elf. I will deliver my message and, if Lord Elrond does not require my presence, will depart again as quickly as possible."

Meneldir gave him a long look but refrained from asking any more questions.  
"I see. More's the pity, then."

The man looked at him in a way that suggested that he didn't even know half of it, and the blond elf had to force down a shiver that wanted to trickle down his spine. He didn't need to possess his lord's foresight to know that whatever it was that had brought the ranger here, it was bad news indeed.

They remained silent for as long as it took them to reach the house. Meneldir needed some more minutes to track down someone who knew what guest room the man had been assigned – Rivendell's staff was frighteningly efficient that way – and then some more for them to reach it and leave his meagre baggage there. Haldar didn't even want to rest a while or freshen up before seeing Lord Elrond, and Meneldir's internal alarm system began to shrill more insistently. This really, really wasn't good.

In the end, everything had been taken care of and Meneldir was leading the ranger to Lord Elrond's study. Haldar had been in Rivendell a few times before, but never long enough to accustom himself with the main house's wide, sprawling corridors and sometimes rambling layout, and therefore gladly accepted the blond commander's help and guidance. They had just rounded the last corner when Lord Elrond's voice could be heard, sounding somewhere between amused and stern.

"Don't even think about accepting that bet, Elladan. Your brother is not thinking clearly at the moment."

Meneldir could almost see the innocent expression on the older twin's face and had to smile openly even in face of the serious countenance of his companion.

"Of course not, _ada_," Elladan's voice said, sounding earnest and obedient. "The thought had never crossed my mind."

A snort could be heard and Meneldir quickly saw who had uttered it as they drew nearer to the study: Estel was being led down the corridor by his elven brother and was obviously quite unimpressed by his innocent protestations. The blond elf's smile widened. This was a perfect opportunity to congratulate Estel on the part he had played in composing the by now infamous list Lord Erestor was so careful to hide. He wasn't sure if insulting the elf lord's filing system had been funny, daring or suicidal, but it had been one thing, namely brave.

Meneldir always recognised bravery, even the insane, suicidal kind.

"Estel," he began, quickening his steps and noticing that his companion did the same, "I have been meaning to… Manwë's breath, you look terrible, _pen-neth_!"

And he did. Estel was pale, red-eyed and grim-faced and looked as if he hadn't slept for ten days only to receive the news that his favourite pet, his favourite tree and his entire family had died. The only thing that seemed to be keeping the young man upright was Elladan's arm that was wrapped around his waist, and he looked at Meneldir out of glazed grey eyes that looked so tired that the elf asked himself immediately if the man used invisible sticks to keep them open. The hated term didn't seem to register in Aragorn's brain, nor did the presence of the ranger that looked at the younger man with an expression on his face that Meneldir, try as he might, could not decipher.

"That he does," Elladan finally answered for his human brother, stopping in front of them and hefting Aragorn's other arm over his shoulder. The man allowed himself to be manhandled in a way that would have had him growling under any other circumstances. "He needs some sleep."

"I dare say he does." Meneldir nodded at his young lord. "Is he all right, my lord?"

A shadow seemed to lay itself over Elladan's face and he looked down on his adopted brother, a strange sadness in his eyes. The man's eyes were slowly sliding closed, no matter how much he fought the process.

"No, Meneldir," the twin said quietly. "No, he isn't. With time and the Valar's grace, however, he will be." He smiled sadly. "His heritage is beginning to show, and once that happens, it doesn't go away."

Meneldir drew the right conclusions and looked at the young man with renewed sympathy. He had often thanked Eru, the Valar, his lucky stars or whoever wanted to listen that there was no one in his family who possessed Lord Elrond's gift, nor did anybody show signs of anything unusual. They were as normal and down-to-earth as elves could be, and no one was happier about it than him. The mere idea of seeing things and places he had no business of seeing, of feeling what other people thought or felt, was enough to make him shiver.

"I see," the blond elf said. "We are on our way to see your father, my lord; will he receive us now?"

Elladan quickly shot the ranger a searching look, but didn't take the time to greet him properly since Aragorn was beginning to slide towards the floor.  
"I would think so." He nodded at the ranger. "I am sorry, but I do not have time – or a free hand, at that – to welcome you to Rivendell as I ought to. I will make up for it."

"Do not worry, my lord," the ranger said, bowing politely. "There is no need for that. I am but a messenger."

"And my lord and father would have my hide if I failed to show a guest the respect and courtesy he is due," Elladan said wryly. "As I said, I will make good for it later. If you would excuse us now…"

Meneldir only nodded and bowed and stepped to the side, and a moment later the two brothers were moving down the hallway. He turned back to the man at his side who was looking after the two of them, dark grey eyes fixed on Aragorn's retreating form. There was something in his eyes for just a second before it was pushed back behind the protective wall that the man seemed to have erected to keep his emotions in check, and it took Meneldir several seconds to identify it: Fear. Real, stark fear that was subdued and controlled so quickly that the elf wasn't even sure he had truly seen it, but even when Haldar had wrestled it down and hidden it out of sight, dark traces of it still clung to his guarded face, and not for the first time the elven commander asked himself just why the ranger had come to Rivendell. And it wasn't fear of the young ranger – it would have been hard to be afraid of him in the state he was in at the moment – but rather fear _for _him.

If that look had been on anybody's face but a ranger's when he looked at Estel, Meneldir would have worried. Come to think about it, it also worried him when it was visible on the face of a ranger. Maybe it even worried him _especially _then.

Resigning himself to spending a worried day, Meneldir sighed inwardly and once again tried to attract the attention of the dark-haired human who was still staring after Estel even though the boy had turned the corner several moments ago.

"Haldar? If you would follow me, Lord Elrond's study is right over here."

The ranger tore himself out of what must have been a fascinating study of the floor tiles of the spot where he had last seen the younger man and shook his head. A sheepish look crossed his face that made him look much younger, and he smiled at the elf in front of him. This time, however, it wasn't a genuine smile, and Meneldir, who had been smiled at by his fair share of politicians and diplomats and knew when someone was smiling at you and meaning it and when not, inwardly narrowed his eyes. Before, it had only been his natural curiosity that had pushed him to discover the motive for Haldar's presence in Imladris; now, his warrior instincts that had served him so well over the past millennia were demanding his attention. This was not good at all.

"Forgive my inattentiveness, Master Elf," the man said courteously while they walked the short distance to Lord Elrond's study. "I was lost in thought."

Meneldir gave the man a calculating look, stopping in front of the large, carved wooden door that led to his lord's study. Protectiveness finally overriding the courtesy towards guests that had been drilled into him since he had been a child, he decided to voice what was bothering him, now before it was too late and Haldar would enter Lord Elrond's study. As Ingvaer, one of his men, had so accurately put it once: Estel might be a bothersome menace, but he was _their _bothersome menace. He doubted that Haldar, who was one of the boy's own people, meant him harm, but it never paid to ignore a bad feeling, especially if it concerned Estel. And if said bad feeling was proven right, the best course of action was usually running to the twins and telling them everything you knew, because they always found out when you were holding something back.

Always.

"Forgive my bluntness, Haldar, but I feel that I must ask you: What are you doing here?" The man started to say something, but Meneldir raised a hand and cut him off before he had even said a word. "I know that you cannot tell me your mission, and I respect that. That is between my lord and you. I have, however, a different question: Do you know Estel?"

The ranger didn't ask immediately and only looked at him in a way that Meneldir could not decipher. He finally opened his mouth to speak, an evasiveness on his face that seemed almost automatic.  
"I know of him."

Dúnedain could give the Firstborn a run for their money when it came to being elusive, Meneldir decided darkly.  
"Is he the reason why you are here?"

Haldar gave him a long look, clearly trying to decide how much he could trust him. Coming from any other man, it was something that would have insulted the fair-haired commander considerably.  
"Maybe," the ranger eventually said, his eyes not leaving the elf's. "But, by Elbereth's stars, I hope that we are wrong."

He would say no more, nor did Meneldir ask him to. After several long seconds, the elf raised a hand to knock on the door and opened it after the soft invitation from inside. Lord Elrond was standing behind his desk, a sombre look on his face as he gazed at the two of them. It certainly looked as if he had known who would be knocking on the door, and also as if he knew he wouldn't enjoy the conversation he was about to be having. Meneldir shivered inwardly. Today was turning out to be one of those days that you were better off spending in your warm bed with your blankets pulled tightly over your head.

"My lord," he still said valiantly. "I present you Haldar, son of Baranor, of the Dúnedain."

"Thank you, Commander," Elrond said with a nod in his direction while Haldar bowed deeply before him. "We have met. Welcome once more to Imladris, son of Baranor. I trust your brother is well?

The man's face darkened as he straightened up, and this time Meneldir could easily identify the emotions swirling in his dark eyes: Fear and pain and rage so black that it would have stolen anyone's breath away.  
"That is one of the reasons why I was sent to Rivendell, my lord. I bring urgent tidings from my captain."

"I understand." Elrond nodded, looking calm and collected. "That is all, Commander, thank you. You may rejoin your patrol once you have collected your men."

"Yes, my lord," Meneldir said obediently and gave the half-elf a quick bow. "Master Human. It has been a pleasure."

Haldar mumbled something similar, but his attention was almost solely fixed on the tall, dark-haired elf lord standing behind the paper-laden desk. Meneldir turned around without another word, walked to the door and stepped outside. When he turned back around to close the wooden wings of the door behind him, the elf lord and the ranger were still simply looking at each other, and while Haldar's face was inscrutable as always, Lord Elrond looked suddenly … tired.

The door closed softly and without making a sound, and Meneldir leaned against the dark wood, trying to bring order into his thoughts. Half a minute later he pushed himself off and began to walk down the corridor and into the direction the older twin had taken mere minutes ago.  
**  
** **  
** **  
**  
Elrond slowly sat down behind his desk, his eyes not leaving the dark-clad man in front of him. He wore no weapons save a small dagger at his belt and his dark grey cloak was pushed back, a concession to courtesy and to the heat, while the rest of the clothes was made of durable cloth dyed in dark or green-brown colours. The face, however, was basically the same he had seen the last time the ranger had been here, even though that must have been over twenty-five years ago, shortly before Arathorn's death.

Haldar looked older, though, his face more lined and care-worn even though his hair was still dark and untouched of grey. To Elrond, it seemed as if he had seen the man only yesterday, twenty years barely even registering with him, and the half-elf realised with a small stab of mixed surprise and dread how much older he looked already. 'Valar they age and die so quickly, even the Númenóreans.'

He motioned for the ranger to sit down which he did, looking slightly uncomfortable. Haldar had only been to Rivendell a few times, but Elrond still remembered his intense unease in enclosed spaces, something that must drive his wife and family to distraction or insanity.

"You bring ill tidings, westman."

It was a statement, not a question, and Haldar could do nothing but nod his dark head in tired, sad agreement.  
"I do, my lord."

Elrond felt how the last, tiny part of him that was still hoping that this was nothing but an unusually sombre formal call shrivelled up and died, and for a moment, he felt every single one of his 6453 years. With a small sigh, he held out a hand, but to his surprise Haldar only shook his head, an apologetic expression on his face.

"I am sorry, my lord, but I have brought you no letter or missive."

Elrond arched an eyebrow and withdrew his hand.  
"That is … unusual. Very unusual, even."

"Yes, my lord," Haldar agreed. "It was thought prudent to put nothing in writing, after everything that has happened. We would not risk letting that which I have come to tell you fall into the wrong hands."

"And whose hands would that be?" Elrond wanted to know.

The man smiled mirthlessly.  
"If we knew that, my lord, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Elrond believed him without hesitation. He did not know what all this was about, but there was a dark light shining in the man's eyes that very clearly said that the owner of said hands would be missing them and a few other major body parts if the Dúnedain were to learn of his identity.

"Tell me your message then, son of Baranor. The Enemy's spies are growing more numerous and cunning with each year that passes, but Imladris is yet safe. No word you speak shall leave this room; you have my word on it."

"I know," the man said, nodding his head earnestly. "You have kept our people's most valuable secret for more than twenty years and many more before it; there is no one we would trust with this more than you."

Elrond gave him a sharp look. Aragorn's identity was a well-kept secret, as the man had said, maybe one of the most well-kept ones Rivendell had ever seen. It was in fact so well-kept that only Elrond, his family (including the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood, of course) and the council knew about it, and he had personally made sure that the same was the case amongst the Dúnedain. Elrond possessed some power and so did others in his realm, but they were no match for the Dark One should he turn his attention openly towards Rivendell in search of the last of Isildur's heirs. He had twenty-one years ago decided that the only path open to them and Aragorn was complete secrecy, and it was a decision he still stood by.

And to his knowledge, Haldar hadn't been privy to this particular secret, so in his eyes there was only one possibility why he should know it anyway.

"You have seen him?" he asked curtly.

"My captain informed me before I left, thinking that I'd better know everything so I might fully understand the importance of my mission," Haldar explained. "But yes, I just saw him. He looks just like his father."

"Yes, he does," Elrond agreed. "But he has his mother's eyes." The half-elf was silent for a moment before he raised his head again and gave the ranger a slightly milder version of the _look_. The man wasn't used to it, he reasoned, and there was no reason to scare him away. If nothing else, it would be impolite. "What news are you bringing me, _dúnadan_?"

Haldar sighed tiredly, leaning back in his high-backed chair. His eyes looked dark and old as he gazed at Elrond.  
"The Dúnedain beg your help, Lord Elrond. Any and all information or … hints … you could give us would be welcome."

"The Men of the West are always welcome in my realm, Haldar. I made a vow to my brother many, many ages ago and later to Elendil whom I called friend, and I will keep it until I no longer draw breath or journey into the West. Until then the Rangers will always find help in these halls." Elrond smiled slightly. "If you would tell me what has happened, however, I would be much better able to aid you."

Haldar bowed his head, a faint, almost imperceptible blush creeping up the sides of his face.

"Forgive me, my lord. That was rather foolish." He took a deep breath. "It started several months ago; we are not completely sure when. Rangers have gone missing, for a lack of better term. At least seven until now, maybe as many as eleven, and all from the area north of the confluence of the rivers. We are reasonably sure that the rest of the Angle has remained quiet, but from Minhiriath we have heard no word. We haven't been able to get news from all of the camps there, but normally the others would have sent word to us if anything like this would have been happening there as well."

Elrond didn't say anything for a few moments, his forehead creased in deep thought. Not all of the Dúnedain were rangers, of course; too large a force would have been impossible to support by a people without a state or a large, stabile community to call upon. There were larger and smaller settlements, some fortified and some not, all over the south of Eriador, even though the vast majority of them were located in what the Men of Bree called the 'Angle': The lands lying between the two rivers Bruinen and Mitheithel. There were also some in what the Rangers called Minhiriath, the lands "Between the Rivers", in this case between the Baranduin and the Gwathló, and some even farther away. This land was far more inhospitable and dangerous than the Angle, though, and so primarily military camps of the Rangers were located there while the rest of the Dúnedain preferred to remain in the Angle and its relative safety or close to it.

The half-elf's frown deepened. Even though the Rangers were fierce and experienced fighters, it was not impossible to imagine them falling prey to illness, accidents or their enemies while they were in their camps beyond the Gwathló or wandering the reaches of Eriador. But seven – or, Elbereth's stars above, eleven! – of them disappearing from practically under his nose, from the Angle where they had their fortified settlements and had settled for centuries?

Ten minutes ago he would have declared it impossible.

"Eleven?" he asked incredulously. "How is that possible?"

"We are not sure." The man shook his head. "Over the past five months, eleven rangers have failed to check in as they ought to have done, all travelling alone. Even considering that some of them might be unable to make contact with us, have passed out of range or are otherwise occupied, seven are most certainly dead. The deaths of two more are likely, and two more have failed to check in with anybody in more than two months. Those two had been meaning to travel to Bree and then on to the Shire while all the others had been stationed in the Angle or in camps located as far to the south as Tharbad, so we believe that they might still be alive."

"Your brother," Elrond said with sudden insight. "He is one of them, isn't he?"

"Yes, my lord," Haldar said tonelessly. "He was supposed to carry some dispatches to the guard at Sarn Ford, but he never reached it. He should have reached the post five days ago at the very latest. The guard there was informed of what is going on and immediately sent word that he had not arrived."

"He might have been held up. Travelling to Sarn Ford can be dangerous at any time of year," the elf lord offered. He didn't look as if he was very convinced of his own words.

"My brother is dead," Haldar said. His voice was devoid of all emotion and sounded hollow more than anything else. "He is sixty-five years old; he isn't some green novice. He has travelled that particular route many times in the past and knows the dangers of it. He would have found a way to send word to us or Sarn Ford, or leave some clues along the way if there had been a reason for him to abandon his mission. There is only one explanation: He is grievously injured or dead. And between being dead and being grievously injured in Minhiriath where there are few human settlements and even less friends there is no difference."

Elrond was silent for a few seconds, finding that he couldn't argue with that logic. As much as he would have liked to believe that Haldar's brother might still be alive, he knew as well as the dark-haired ranger that the chances were slim, if not non-existent.

"What about the others?" he finally asked. "The seven rangers you spoke about, did you find their bodies?"

"Yes," Haldar said grimly. "Parts of them."

"Parts of them," Elrond echoed, disbelief on his face.

"Yes." Haldar nodded. "We found no clue as to who killed them; too much time had already passed when we put the pieces together and sent out search parties."

"Valar," Elrond breathed softly. "Those are ill tidings indeed."

"We do not know what is going on," the ranger went on. "The captains are divided. There are no obvious ties between the dead warriors; they weren't part of the same guard or even the same company. Their families live in different villages and they were stationed in different camps and at different posts. No one knows what is going happening."

"But the captains have a suspicion, do they not?" Elrond pressed the man. "Otherwise you would not have come here so quickly. You know that I would have sent word to you if I had even the slightest suspicion of something like this going on practically under my nose."

Haldar rubbed his forehead and seemed to slump into his chair, even more than he had done when the conversation had turned to his missing brother.  
"Yes," he admitted after a few seconds. "Yes, they do. They think that whoever is doing this is … searching for something, for information most likely. Or," he paused meaningfully and raised his eyes to look at Elrond, "for someone. I came to warn you, and my chieftain."

"No," Elrond shook his head automatically, feeling how his heart dropped into his stomach. "No, it cannot be. Except for your captains and very few other people, no one knows who Aragorn really is. Even after what happened the last time he visited the camps of the Dúnedain…"

"It is not common knowledge amongst the people, no." Haldar shook his head. "Everybody thinks that Arathorn's son died with his parents and that the line was broken. But that doesn't mean that somebody couldn't find out."

"It is impossible," the elf lord declared flatly. "You cannot mean to tell me that the Enemy has learned of my son's identity! Your people would talk no sooner than my council and the few elves beside them who know Estel's true name. _He _could not have discovered his identity, he simply could not."

"As you said, my lord," the man sighed, "the Enemy's spies grow more numerous and cunning every year. Somebody might…"

"No, Haldar," Elrond interrupted him, all colour having drained from his face. His voice was calm and very steady, and his features set and stony. "If Sauron had learned about Aragorn's identity and whereabouts, he would have sent one of his servants, most likely even one or more of the _Úlairi_, here to Rivendell. My guards would have noticed something over the past months, _I _would have noticed something. It is not possible."

"Then, my lord, we have no explanation," Haldar said. "It is as mysterious to us as it is to you. All we do know is that someone or something is killing our warriors, and that we have no idea who it might be or how to stop them."

Elrond looked at the man, still feeling how his heart beat wildly in his chest. The Rangers were a proud people, and, for all their ties to Rivendell, they would not beg his help in this way unless they were convinced that it was the only way. Or, he added grimly, convinced that all this was somehow connected to his youngest son.

And try as he might, he couldn't convince himself that they were wrong.

"How can I help you, then?" he asked. "You have only to ask, you know that. Even if you are wrong and this has nothing at all to do with Estel – and, Eru, how I wish it were so! –, I would do everything in my power to aid you. I honour my promises and keep my vows, and I will not allow my brother's people to be threatened in such a way if there is anything I can do about it."

The man's chin lifted proudly.

"I thank you for your offer, my lord, but the Dúnedain can take care of their own. We will find the ones responsible for the deaths of our people and we will show them what happens to those who threaten the Rangers in such a manner! But," he added with a small, wry smile, "we need information. Whoever is behind this, he is good. We have found no trace, no leads, no trails – nothing. We are stumbling around in the dark while more and more of our people are killed. The captains send me to ask you if you have any information that might be useful to us, any at all. The Rangers are keen-eyed and perceptive, but we are no match for the Firstborn."

Elrond sat back in his chair, pressing his hands together. His feeling this morning had been right: Today was turning out to be a horrible day.  
"No reports have reached my ears, Haldar. To my knowledge, there is nothing unusual going on." Except for Legolas, Aragorn and the twins attracting the usual chaos, that was. "Nothing that would explain what you just told me, at least."

Haldar briefly closed his eyes and exhaled, sadness and disappointment laying itself over his features before it was pushed back and quickly subdued.  
"I see," he said tiredly. "I thank you, my lord. I shall…"

"I will, however," Elrond went on, holding up a hand, "have Lord Glorfindel call together all the captains and commanders of the border posts, patrols and scouting missions that have returned in the past six months. If there is anybody who knows anything about this, anything at all, we will discover it."

A large smile spread over the man's guarded face that made him look much younger.  
"Thank you, my lord. I would have hated to return to my captain with the news of my failure."

"I hope you will not have to," Elrond told him with a small smile of his own. Only somebody who knew him well would have noticed the worry and concern hidden behind it. "It might take several days to get all of them together, though. Have you been shown to your rooms already?"

"Yes, my lord," Haldar said with a nod. "Commander Meneldir was so kind to take me there before accompanying me here. I should be able to find my way."

"Then I suggest we adjourn this conversation until tomorrow. I will see you tonight in the Hall of Fire, I trust?"

It looked as if the man wanted to decline the offer, but then courtesy seemed to override exhaustion and the dark cloud of grief and anger that hung over his head that was almost solid enough so that one could see it with the naked eye.  
"Yes, my lord. I will be there."

"I am looking forward to seeing you there, then," Elrond told him with nod. Haldar took that for the dismissal it was and stood up, but before the man could leave the room, Elrond spoke up again, his eyes sympathetic. "What about your sister-in-law and the rest of your family, Haldar? How are they coping with your brother's disappearance?"

Haldar, who had already turned towards the door, stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't move a muscle for a few seconds before he turned around, his face carefully expressionless.  
"My sister-in-law is a dúnadan, my lord. She knew the risks when she married a ranger, knew that, one day, he might not return home. She does her duty, as did he."

"I am sure she does," Elrond said gently. "But such knowledge does not make a loss like this any easier."

Haldar looked at him, eyes dark and full of pain. For a moment, he looked as young as he really was in Elrond's eyes.  
"No," he eventually. "No, it never does."

He gave half-elf a bow and turned around, and a moment later he was gone, closing the door softly behind him. Elrond was left alone in his sun-filled study, looking out over the peaceful valley of Rivendell and feeling how darkness crept up on him, a darkness he had been fighting all his life.

The next time he saw Glorfindel he was going to hit him, he decided dazedly. He just had _had _to say it, hadn't he?

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_ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
ion nín (S.) - my son  
elleth (S.) - elf-maid  
pen-neth (S.) - young one  
dúnadan (S.) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
Úlairi (Q.) - The Nine; the dark servants of Sauron also known as the Nazgûl (Ringwraiths)_

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I just thought about the whole "dúnadan" thing again. I mean, when Haldar was talking about his sister-in-law, he says she is a 'Man' of the West, which of course she isn't. But I couldn't find any proof that the female form, namely dúnadaneth, was used at all. So I decided to use "dúnadan" as we would use "English" or "French". Know anything about that? •shrugs• Ah well. So, the next chapter will be here next Tuesday, so stay tuned! Reviews will be considered late Christmas presents and will be cherished, loved and made into wallpaper. I'm not kidding you. •g•**

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**Additional A/N:**

**I apologise to (•anonymous•), Clone Trooper, Kuramagal and Greenleaf's Girl for not including them in my little group email. So, remember, if you leave a review, either log in (and have a valid email address on your profile page) or, if you review anonymously, leave your email address! Thanks a lot, and sorry again!**


	5. A Simple Conversation

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Have I ever bloody mentioned how bloody much I hate this bloody site? All right, disturbing overusage of the word 'bloody' aside, have I? Because I really, really do. First it screws with the alerts, then it refuses to let me log in, then it does send me some of the alerts (exactly a week too late) but still refuses to let me log in? •takes deep breath• All right, it's all right, calm down... It just hates me. I have to accept that and move on.**

**I am actually too pissed off to think of anything witty or interesting to say, so I'll make this brief. The next update might be a bit late, because I have two rather big presentations next Thursday and haven't done a lot to prepare yet. All right, so I'll admit it, I haven't done anything yet, which might result in chaos or a catastrophe if I don't get off my butt soon and actually do something. So, I don't think I will be able to update next Tuesday; next weekend or the Tuesday after that - what's that, the 22nd? - is more likely. I'm sorry, but I really haven't got any work done over Christmas - not a big surprise, I know - and now I really have to do something or suffer the consequences. And since said consequences would include academic humiliation, I'd really like to avoid them.**

**•looks at A/N• Oh, you actually believed me when I said this was going to be a brief A/N? •cackles evilly• Or not... Anyway, here's the next part, which is a bit shorter than the last one - only 17 pages - but actually closer to the length I'm aiming for. More than eighteen is just too much. So, not a lot of action in this one, since everybody's worried: Elladan and Elrohir are, Legolas drops in to be worried, too, Meneldir has a confession to make, and Legolas decides that he and Haldar need to have a little chat. The ranger's not too happy about it, either. Oh, and Aragorn sleeps. Finally.**

**Have fun and review, please!**

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Chapter 5

Elrohir, sitting back in his (or rather his human brother's) armchair, decided that Aragorn was the single most stubborn being he had ever had the displeasure of meeting. And that, he added somewhat sourly, included that dwarf Mithrandir had brought here about ten years ago, what had his name been … Thorin?

Estel had less hair and was maybe a little taller, but those were about the only major differences.

The object of his somewhat annoyed deliberations was lying in his bed no more than two or three feet away and was blinking up at his elven brothers with large, far too bright eyes. The only things missing from his owl impersonation were the feathers and the beak.

"Estel," Elladan said with a patience that Elrohir would never have credited him with, "just go to sleep. Everything will be all right, I promise."

If there was a way for someone all but pretending to be an owl to look sceptical, Aragorn had found it and did just that. He was far too exhausted to fully raise an eyebrow, but his right one jerked weakly in a way that was apparently meant to convey disbelief.

"Right now … I really doubt it, _muindor_."

"Listen to him, Estel," Elrohir told his younger brother, leaning forward in his chair. "You more or less watched me mix the potion. You know what I put in there, and you know that none of the ingredients I used will make you dream. They will, in fact, knock you out completely for at least eight hours. Now, if Elladan had been mixing the draught, I would understand your concern, but…"

"Funny, Elrohir," Elladan said in mock annoyance. "Very funny. If I weren't afraid to scare the little one, I would clout you over the head and throw you off the balcony and into the Bruinen."

"Don't let me spoil your fun," Aragorn mumbled, the corners of his mouth curving upwards the slightest bit. The twins exchanged a triumphant look. "And … I'm … I'm not little."

"Of course not." Elrohir grinned at him. "For a man, you're even quite tall. Now will you please stop fighting the potion and go to sleep?"

"It's not that I don't trust you," Aragorn said, or rather yawned. "It's only that … that you have always had that little problem with the dosage of _losdalas_…"

"Estel," Elladan tried again. "You can trust us. Elrohir didn't make a mistake – I watched him, after all…"

"Oh yes, _that _was a big help."

"…and I am sure it is working just as it should, or rather would work just as it should, if you would relax and allow yourself to fall asleep," the older twin went on, ignoring his brother's words. "I know that the mere thought of drinking any kind of medicine that Elrohir made is frightening, but you will have to be brave, _muindor nín_, or you'll hurt his feelings."

Elrohir grumbled something under his breath that involved revenge, pain and – out of some unfathomable reason – blueberries, while Aragorn only blinked up at him, looking especially owlish again, and Elladan couldn't hide the smile that spread over his face.

"Estel," he said, reaching out and pushing a strand of dark hair away from the man's forehead, "listen to me. Have we ever lied to you?"

Aragorn gave him a look that, tired as he was, clearly conveyed that he considered that question to be strange, superfluous and highly foolish.  
"Yes?!"

Elladan's smile widened, his fingers still resting lightly on his human brother's forehead.  
"About anything serious or important, I mean."

An answering smile appeared on the ranger's face even while his eyes closed.  
"No."

"There you have it," Elrohir interjected, inching forward on his seat. "Sleep, Estel. We will be here when you awake."

"Unless I clout him over the head and throw him into the Bruinen."

"Unless Elladan clouts me over the head and throws me into the Bruinen," Elrohir corrected himself. "Be reasonable and listen to your elders for once, brother. Sleep."

"Did listen … already … with Glorfindel … and the blackberry … pies…"

The twins exchanged a grin. That particular episode was still one of their favourites (even though Glorfindel was most definitely not of that opinion), and they would remember it fondly for many years to come.

"Yes, you did," Elladan said with a smile. "And what a glorious sight our father's dear seneschal presented! Now sleep."

And, finally, to their surprise, Aragorn did. In a matter of seconds the man's breathing had evened out as exhaustion and the sleeping draught pulled him under. The twins stared at the young ranger for several long seconds as if expecting him to try and melt through the mattress, drop onto the floor and crawl away, before they finally leaned back into their armchairs, looking at each other warily.

"Valar," Elladan said and ran a hand through his long hair. "And I had thought it was hard to get him to go to sleep when he was a child."

"When he 'was' a child?" Elrohir asked wryly. "So what is he now?"

"Now, _gwanur_," his brother said, sadness in his eyes, "He is an adult. I know that it is hard to remember sometimes, but amongst his people, he is an adult."

"But not here," the younger twin, his voice almost hard. "Here he is our little brother, if he wants to be or not."

"Oh, I am quite sure he wants to be." Elladan smiled mirthlessly. "I am not sure if the world will allow him that choice, however."

"Then it can take it up withi me," Elrohir said in a rather uncharacteristic display of hot-headedness. "And I am warning it right now: I am prepared to fight dirty if I have to."

Elladan looked at him with a raised eyebrow.  
"Did you just warn the world that you are prepared to fight dirty?"

"What if I did?" Elrohir stared at him challengingly. Elladan's other eyebrow rose to join the first, and a few moments later his younger brother lowered his head. "I am sorry, Elladan. _I _hardly understand what I am saying."

His twin smiled at him and briefly reached out to clasp his shoulder.  
"Oh, I do understand you. I know what you mean, and if you ever want to fight the entire world over anything, you know that I will be standing right next to you."

Elrohir returned the smile.  
"I know. You're an idiot like that."

"Guilty as charged." Elladan grinned at him. "Just like you are." Elrohir only quirked an eyebrow at him, and so he added, "He will be all right. They always are."

"Yes," the younger twin mumbled. "They always are. But this time, Elladan … he's had them for a week, every single night. For a first vision to be so violent and to last so long…"

"I know," his twin cut him off. "I know. It is unusual. I cannot remember any of the others developing their gift so sudden, or at so young an age. True, there were some who were younger, but their abilities slowly built up and often never reached the extent Estel already is displaying now. It doesn't really make sense."

"Something must have happened," Elrohir said quietly.

"But what, and to whom, and why?" Elladan asked, gesturing with his left hand in a way that would almost have taken his twin's eye out. "It doesn't make sense." He frowned slightly. "Do you still remember the first time we…"

"…had a vision?" his brother finished his sentence. "Valar, how could I forget? It was very memorable, after all."

'Memorable' was a rather nice term. They had been in the middle of their first real large-scale battle, and the little vision they'd shared (something that still happened to them from time to time) had been enough to almost lose them their heads. Literally.

"Estel is not alone," Elladan tried to reassure him, shooting a quick glance at the sleeping human. The worry lines that had marred his face had smoothed out, making him look young and vulnerable. "He doesn't know what is going on, but _we _do. We can help him understand what is happening to him."

"We don't know what is going on either," Elrohir objected. "Oh, we know how to comfort someone who has just started developing psychic abilities and how to help them deal with it, but we don't know why he's had the vision. We can't help him interpret it, or classify it, or even deal with it until we have figured out what it was about. And I, for one, do not see that happening any time soon."

"You are being too pessimistic," Elladan told him and gave him a grin that was quite clearly designed to cheer him up. "You have been spending too much time with Glorfindel."

"You are the one who is always spending time with him," his brother pointed out. "But I am serious, Elladan. Something is seriously wrong, and I cannot see a way to fix it."

Elladan looked as if he wanted to protest once more, but he thought better of it and finally shook his head and exhaled.  
"I know." He sighed deeply. "There is something wrong."

"There is always something wrong." Elrohir shook his head. "That is the curse of this place, or that is what I sometimes think. How does this saying go again, 'May you live in interesting times'? Well, we most certainly are."

"I do not think it fair to blame your fair valley for this," a new voice announced. "'Interesting times' follow you wherever you go, sons of Elrond. Rivendell has little to do with that if you ask me."

The two dark-haired elves turned away from the bed, their eyes searching the room until they came to rest on a blond head that was poked through the light curtains that covered the open balcony doors. A second later the long drapes were pushed apart and the voice's owner stepped into the room, his long blond hair gleaming softly in the bright sunlight before the curtains were closed again and a somewhat gloomy semidarkness once again descended over the room.

"That, dear Legolas, would be the reason why we don't ask you," Elladan said, a small smile on his lips. "If your father knew that you are climbing from balcony to balcony... And if 'interesting times' follow anybody anywhere, it's definitely you. It's a miracle Mirkwood's Halls are still standing."

"I resent that," Legolas said mildly, looking about himself for a place to sit and finally choosing the edge of Aragorn's bed. He sat down carefully, studying the face of the sleeping man with an intensity that was quite hard to describe or interpret. "I do not have the kind of bad luck you two – and Estel – are attracting so regularly."

"Oh?" Elrohir arched a dark eyebrow. "How interesting to hear. What about that one time with the trolls?"

"An unfortunate incident." Legolas waved his words aside.

"Baredlen?"

"A rare case of bad luck."

"That business in Esgaroth?"

"That was entirely the Dwarves' fault."

"Donrag?"

"Connected to Esgaroth and therefore also the Dwarves' fault."

"I see." Elrohir grinned at him. "You are right. Elladan and I are horribly careless while you and Estel are the perfect example for misunderstood, unfortunate, innocent people who would like to do nothing more than frolic in sunlit meadows."

"Would you care to repeat that in front of my father?" Legolas asked interestedly. "I would also be willing to write a letter myself; you would only have to sign it. I don't even think a seal would be necessary."

"Later, perhaps," Elrohir said. "Where did you leave Celylith?"

"I did not ask him where he went," Legolas answered, his eyes once again returning to his human friend's still form. "To be perfectly honest, I was afraid to. He is either gone to visit that pretty she-elf he saw in one of the painters' studios – in which case I wouldn't want to know in case her father or brother come looking for him – or to visit that horrible bat of his. And in that case I don't want to know because it will make me burst a blood vessel."

"You should just order him to get rid of it."

Legolas turned around and fixed the older twin with a cold stare.  
"What do you think I have been trying to do for the past few weeks?"

Elrohir raised his hands in supplication.  
"I am sure you have been trying very hard. He can be very stubborn, that one."

"Indeed," Legolas said wryly. "He is his father's son, and if there is one thing I have learned, it is that you don't want to face Lord Celythramir across the negotiating table."

He turned back to his sleeping friend and unknowingly copied Elladan's gesture and pushed a strand of hair away from his face. Legolas sighed inwardly when his fingers made contact with cool, dry skin – he had started to become afraid that there might be something physically wrong with the man.

On second though, that might have been preferable.

"How is he?" he asked the twins softly. Aragorn was looking as if he was resting peacefully, but he was old enough to know that that didn't have to mean anything. "And what in the name of Elbereth Gilthoniel is going on here? You dragged him off to your father so quickly that I couldn't even ask you what is happening."

The twins exchanged a look and Elrohir opened his mouth to explain.  
"We had to," he said. "He was terrified and only a second away from losing control. He didn't know what was happening to him. Bringing him to _ada _was the logical choice; he's had millennia of experience dealing with this kind of problem."

"So it was a vision?" Legolas asked.

The two dark-haired elves exchanged a puzzled look.  
"How did you know?" Elrohir asked and raised an eyebrow. For a moment, he looked so much like his father that it was almost laughable. "I only figured it out myself this morning when he told us about the dreams."

Legolas did have the good grace to look embarrassed.  
"I heard it from Celylith, who heard it from that artist I mentioned, who heard it from a friend of hers, who heard it from her fiancé, who heard it from a fellow warrior, who heard it from his cousin who works in the kitchens."

The twins frowned as they tried to follow that particular line of thought. Finally Elladan shrugged and shook his head.  
"The kitchen staff. It's always the same; how they always know about everything I will never understand. And all that in less than an hour! I should suggest to _ada _offering the chef a post in Erestor's unofficial spy net."

"Maybe. But you shouldn't blame them; Silvan Elves can be persuasive," Legolas said in manner of explanation.

"You mean you're too annoying to ignore for long periods of time."

"That, too," the fair-haired elf admitted. He turned back to give Aragorn a long look before he returned his attention to the twins. "So he will be all right?"

"In body – yes. He admitted to not having slept for a week or more when we … well, let's say 'cornered' him, shall we?"

"A week?" Legolas turned appalled eyes on his friends. "Humans can't do that, can they?"

"Normally they can't, no." Elladan shook his head. "But … well, Estel is a special case. For one, he is a Númenórean, and also one of the most stubborn creatures I have ever met. He's reached his limits, though."

"Yes," the fair-haired elf said softly, giving the sleeping human a quick look. "That I can see. But he is only exhausted, isn't he?"

"Very much so." Elrohir nodded. "He should be fine in a day or two, which he should spend sleeping anyway. It was a miracle that he could still keep his eyes open."

"And what about the … vision?" Legolas wanted to know.

The elven prince looked suddenly uncomfortable. He had known that Aragorn as the Heir of Isildur might very well develop the abilities his foster father and brothers possessed, but he had never really thought about how he would react when they finally did manifest. There were people with the gift of foresight at his father's court, of course – even though none of them was nearly as gifted as Lord Elrond –, but he didn't know any of them very well. As an elfling, he had always been somewhat intimidated by the idea of somebody seeing and knowing something they possibly couldn't, and some faint remnants of these feelings were still hidden somewhere in the darker corners of his heart.

His closest personal experience with visions and prophetic dreams was having to suffer the company of one of Glónduil's cousins for two hours who had been insisting that he was a seer and had seen the destruction of Mirkwood through a giant spider that would drop onto the roof of the palace and cause it to collapse. He still wasn't sure just what the elf had drunk to be able to make these rather interesting if annoying claims, but he had spent the better part of a year trying to find out.

In short, he was rather sure that his knowledge would not really help him here.

"About that, my friend, I can tell you little." Elladan sighed in answer to his question. "He cannot remember all of it, and what he can remember is too fragmented to interpret clearly. Once his mind has found a way to deal with this new experience, he will get better and the nightmares should cease, or at least lessen in intensity. It will take time, but he should be all right. His ancestors were, once they learned to deal with what they saw."

"Somehow that is not very reassuring." Legolas frowned at them. "What you are telling me is that there is no way to be sure about anything. Aragorn is not his ancestors."

"No, that he is not." Elrohir smiled softly. "He is something entirely different."

"What I am trying to say, Legolas, is that you have to give him time," Elladan tried again. "Right now he is confused and exhausted and very, very frightened. Don't press him on the question of what he saw, though. I do not know about all he saw and what it meant, but the mere thought of trying to remember was almost enough to send him into a panic."

"Aragorn doesn't panic."

"Trust me, _mellon nín_." Elladan smiled mirthlessly. "I know a panic when I see one. I remember the time my – our – gifts manifested. I am not an elf prone to losing my cool, nor was I when I was younger, but _I _panicked."

Legolas gave him a look that clearly said that he didn't fully believe that. The twins were indeed not elves to lose their composure, and he had a hard time wrapping his mind around the concept. Then again, neither were they liars, and to believe that they would knowingly or willingly deceive him about something like this wasn't only hard to comprehend. It was completely inconceivable.

The wood-elf stared at the two of them for a long time, looking as if he blamed them for what was happening to his human friend.  
"I hate this," he declared with feeling. "You may understand all this, but I do not. I am but a wood-elf; this kind of thing doesn't really happen in Mirkwood. Or if it does, it's nowhere near as dramatic."

"Oh?" Elrohir arched an eyebrow again.

"Indeed," Legolas said darkly. "We do not like to indulge in histrionics to the same degree as you Noldor do."

"Ha!" Elrohir exclaimed. Objectively speaking, he did it in a rather dramatic way. "Do you hear him, brother? They do not like to…"

Before he could say more, a knock sounded on the door. The three of them looked at each other, clearly trying to figure out just who it might be, but then Elladan shrugged. If it was Gaerîn who had come with her chains to make sure that Aragorn stayed in bed, the red-haired healer would be sorely disappointed. The man was out like a light.

"Come in!"

It took several seconds longer than it ought to have taken, but finally the door was opened and a blond elf entered the room, looking as if he was doing this against his better judgement. He probably was, too.  
"Excuse me, my lords. I hope I am not disturbing you?"

"No, Meneldir, you are not." Elrohir smiled at him. "Do come in, please. You will have to excuse Estel, though. He is not up to entertaining visitors."

Meneldir gave the sleeping man who was covered with thin white sheets a quick look before he nodded his head. No matter how unhappy he was to see anybody sleep with their eyes closed, this sight was a far more welcome one than the one the young man had presented the last time he had seen him.

"That I can see. I do not wish to disturb you longer than I have to, my lords, but I feel that there is something you need to know."

The twins looked at each other. The way this day had started, it just couldn't be anything good.  
"Is there something wrong?" Elrohir asked, trying to look as calm as possible.

"I couldn't say, my lord." The blond elf shrugged helplessly, having come to a stop a feet away from Aragorn's bed. "I … I happened to have a few words with the ranger while I escorted him to your father's study." Both twins looked at him with raised eyebrows, and so he added quickly, "It was all very polite and amicable, my lords. I did nothing that could be construed as a violation of the laws of hospitality."

"We would never accuse you of anything like that," Elrohir was quick to reassure him. "It's just that you can be a little … direct … from time to time."

"Direct?" Meneldir asked. Legolas wasn't sure about it, but he could have sworn that the other elf was blinking innocently. "I do not know what you mean, my lord."

"In Aberon you almost strangled that one councilman!" Elladan exclaimed.

"He annoyed me," Meneldir said evenly. "And besides, Lord Elrohir's orders said…"

"I remember my orders," Elrohir told him with a smile. "They did not include 'Kill anyone who annoys you'."

"I must have misunderstood something, then." The commander stated. "I got along with Haldar very well, my lord, and I did not even threaten him once."

"Astonishing," Elrohir said teasingly. "And hard to believe."

Legolas wasn't smiling, but he wasn't looking overly suprised at the revelation that a ranger had arrived in Rivendell. The kitchen staff, Elrohir thought wryly, was really quite a lot more effective than he had thought.

"Indeed." Meneldir nodded. "The question of why he is here kind of … came up." The twins' eyebrows were raised once again at that – Rangers didn't allow things to just 'come up' – but Meneldir ignored it and continued. "You did not see it, I presume," he looked at Elladan, "but he had the strangest look on his face when he looked at Estel. I asked him if the boy was the reason why he was here."

"And what did he say?" Elladan asked. His face was so still that it might as well have been carved out of marble.

"He said, and I quote, 'Maybe. But I hope that we are wrong.'" Meneldir shifted slightly, unease on his face as he looked at the three elves in front of him. "I did not mean to spy on our guests, my lord, but I thought…"

"You did well, Meneldir." Elladan smiled, the mirth not reaching his eyes. "Thank you for informing us. We do appreciate it."

"Just don't tell your father." The other elf smiled back at him. "I think he would take a dim view on me extracting information from his visitors."

"Do not worry, we will not tell him," Elladan assured him. "We might also recommend you for a post in Lord Erestor's spy network. You might have to work for one of the cooks, though."

"My lord?" Meneldir asked in obvious confusion.

"Never mind him," Elrohir told him with a dark look in his brother's direction. "He's not quite right in the head today."

"Yes, my lord," the elven commander answered obediently. Far be it from his mind to disagree with his superiors, after all. "That is all I can tell you, my lords. The _dúnadan_ wasn't overly communicative."

"Few of them are," Elladan agreed. "It is all right, Commander. Thank you for informing us."

"There is no need to thank me, my lords. Whatever happens now, it is better than the alternative." Meneldir inwardly contemplated on what might have happened to him if he hadn't come here and told the twins just what he had learned from the ranger and shuddered openly. He nodded at the twins and turned to give Legolas a quick bow. "My lords. Your Highness."

A moment later he was gone, closing the door softly behind him, and silence descended over the room. It was Legolas who finally broke it, his voice sounding far calmer than he really felt.

"It might be just me, but that doesn't sound good."

"It's not just you." Elrohir shook his head. "That doesn't sound good at all."

Elladan nodded solemnly, his eyes wandering over Aragorn's sleeping form before they fixed on his brother and friend.  
"I think it is time we went to see _ada_."

His twin nodded solemnly and mumbled words of agreement, and the two of them were soon embroiled in a hushed conversation about when and how they were best going to talk to their father. Legolas, however, remained quiet while he studied the quiet, peaceful face of his friend.

If there was one thing he had learned from his father, it was that it always paid to go directly to the source. It seemed that he and that mysterious ranger were going to have a little talk of their own.  
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The sun was slowly making her way over the sky, already nearing the horizon and bathing the lands in the west in warm golden light. In an hour at the latest she would sink below the horizon completely; the first dim stars were already visible even despite the bright beams of the sun.

And then, Haldar thought darkly, the feast would begin. Elves needed little excuse to indulge in merrymaking, after all, and today would be no exception. And besides, Lord Elrond had expressly stated that he expected him to be there. The half-elven lord was no superior of his and had no authority to order him to do anything, but … well, he _was _the Lord of Rivendell. Without his help the Rangers and especially their chieftains would have been in serious trouble more than once, and he like the majority of his people harboured immense respect for him. Not attending the celebrations would be an immense sign of disrespect and a diplomatic faux pas he had no intention of committing.

If he was right and his brother was really dead, it would not do to expect his mother to deal with losing her second son as well, because that was how it would turn out. His captain might be sceptical about his entire visit, but he would not hesitate to kill him if he ruined this mission.

He had a temper on him, had his captain.

The man turned away from the sun – staring at it would only hurt his eyes, or that was what his mother was always telling him – and looked for a place to sit down. There was a stone bench over to the right, situated in the shade of two large oak trees, and the ranger gladly walked over to it. Even though the sun was setting, it was still very hot, and even the proximity to the many streams and lakes did not help much. The elves he had seen on his way to the gardens hadn't looked as if the heat bothered them overly much, but the Firstborn were better equipped to deal with extreme heat or cold than Men or Dwarves or Hobbits. It wasn't very fair, but sadly a fact of life.

Haldar allowed himself to plop down onto the bench, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He should be in his room, he guessed, resting or at least pretending to rest, but he simply didn't like being in enclosed spaces. That was one of the reasons why he had joined the Rangers – something that hadn't made his parents and especially his mother very happy since his older brother had already been living in a Dúnadan camp for several years back then. Dúnadan women were not giving birth to many children anymore, not since a long time, and to have no more than one or two children was more the norm than the exception. His mother had not happily or easily accepted that both her children chose such a dangerous life, but had yielded in the end. She wasn't the only one who was by now surely regretting that decision.

The ranger leaned back against the tree at his back, staring unseeingly at the rose bushes across him. Valar, how he missed Belen! His brother had married quite late, and so he and his wife hadn't had any children of their own yet. They had spent a lot of time with him and his wife and children. He hadn't been lying to Lord Elrond; he was sure that his brother was dead, surer than he had been about anything in his whole life. Even before the news from Sarn Ford had reached their camp, he had woken up that one morning nine days ago and simply _known_.

That knowledge was enough to make his innards churn with fury and helplessness and pain so black and all-encompassing that it robbed him of breath. That was why he had accepted this mission: He wanted to find out who had killed his brother and why and what was going on, and, Eru be his witness, he would accomplish that, too, and if it was the last thing he ever did.

Knowing his unit's kind of luck, it most likely would be the last thing he ever did.

Haldar exhaled and forced his thoughts away from that topic. There was nothing he could do now, with them knowing absolutely nothing. But if not even the Elves knew anything about what was happening here – so close to their realm! –, then it really couldn't be good. Lord Elrond was most definitely the wisest being he had ever met, and if not even he knew anything, there had to be something dark and powerful at work that he didn't really want to think about. It was one thing to tangle with the Rangers, but to do it so close to the realm of Rivendell was another thing entirely.

The man frowned openly. He didn't have anything against the Elves, otherwise he would hardly be here. His captain could be a sceptical man of a sometimes distrustful nature, but he wasn't an idiot and wouldn't send anybody who wasn't suited for it on a mission as important as this one. So, even while he respected them or even liked them, they also made him … uneasy.

They were too cheerful and wise and beautiful and proud and cryptic and evasive and inscrutable and profound and terrible … they were just "too" everything. As unhappy he was to admit it – even to himself –, he was somewhat intimidated by them and sometimes even felt slightly overwhelmed. He wouldn't ever show it, of course, least of all to Lord Elrond or any of his people, but the feelings were there. He suspected that it was a feeling most people who came across any elf were familiar with; Elves took some getting used to, and he was convinced that you had to live with them for at least a few decades before you even got close to understanding them.

And even then _he _would never understand them, he was sure about it. They were ethereal creatures even despite their humour and ferocity in battle, and he himself had never really known how to treat them. They were simply too strange to get along with easily, and he seldom had the patience or time to deal with their long-winded speeches and evasive comments and…

"You must be the ranger, then," a soft, lilting voice announced somewhere to the left of him.

…and their tendency to sneak up on unsuspecting mortals, the ranger finished his thought, annoyance forming a small, hard knot in the pit of his stomach. He knew that a large part of that didn't have anything to with Rivendell or the Elves but rather with the chaos he had left at home and his brother, but that did little to change it.

Haldar lifted dark grey eyes to see himself almost face to face with an elf that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He didn't look like any of the Rivendell Elves he had seen until now, with light blond hair and sparkling silver-blue eyes. He was dressed in a light, green shirt and simple brown breeches that still looked costly enough. Those were not colours he had seen too often in Rivendell whose inhabitants generally favoured dark, grey and blue colours; his fair hair only served to emphasise the impression that he did not belong here.

"Yes, I am," he replied evenly. "I am Haldar, son of Baranor."

A smile flashed over the elf's face, so swift and bright that it reminded the man of a small wave in a clear stream.  
"That you are. I have heard about you. I am Legolas of Mirkwood."

The ranger looked at him as expressionlessly as he could while he mind worked quickly. That explained the clothes and his colouring, even though it didn't really explain his presence. He wouldn't say that he knew a lot about elven politics, but he was rather sure that Mirkwood and Rivendell were connected by some rather strained ties.

"Greetings, Master Elf." He didn't say more. If this elf wanted something from him, he would have to go ahead and say it.

The elf nodded at him and took a step closer, his hair startlingly golden in the sunlight.  
"I would like to have a word with you, Haldar, son of Baranor."

There was nothing in his voice that would indicate that the elf would be inclined to postpone this conversation in case the timing didn't suit him, nor would Haldar ever have thought that he entertained such considerate thoughts. His eyes were hard and not touched by the smile that was still on his lips and his stance was equally uncompromising. This elf wouldn't give up until he got just what he wanted, and Haldar sighed almost inaudibly.

"Of course." He gestured at the bench and shifted slightly to the side. "Please, sit down. It is far too hot today to remain standing for longer than one absolutely has to."

Something like surprise flickered over the elf's face, and Haldar couldn't quite stop the swell of smugness that rose up inside of him. The elf hadn't thought that he could be diplomatic, now had he? The fair-haired being quickly collected himself again and sat down with a graceful motion that Haldar wouldn't be able to copy even if he practiced for years. Before he knew what was happening, Haldar found himself the focus of a pair of calm blue eyes that studied him with an intensity that was very elven and completely impossible to ignore. This, Haldar thought dazedly while he fought to look away from that transfixing gaze, was not how he had imagined his afternoon to turn out.

"Can I..." The man swallowed and finally managed to fix his eyes on a spot somewhere to the left of the elf's shoulder. "Can I help you?"

Legolas would almost have smiled. He wasn't trying to torment the man, but he found it rather interesting how he reacted to one of his father's patented I-am-the-king-of-hundreds-of-battle-hardened-warrriors-so-you'd-better-tell-me-everything-I-want-to-know stares. After dealing for so long with Aragorn who was more or less the only human he'd ever _really _known, he had almost forgotten how normal humans (and Dúnedain were apparently no exception) responded to it. It would probably be interesting to see how he reacted to one of Lord Elrond's _looks_.

"I most certainly hope so," he told the man, trying to look as harmless as possible. "I hope you don't take this question the wrong way, but what are you doing here?"

"Excuse me?" The ranger raised his eyebrows innocently, but Legolas, who had centuries of experience dealing with uncommunicative councilmen and ambassador, easily saw through that.

"I am sorry, Master Human." He smiled at the man. "I should have warned you beforehand. I am a wood-elf, and we do not possess the same … delicacy … or adhere to the same strict formalities as our Noldorin brethren. In my king's realm, warriors speak their minds when they talk to each another."

"An admirable sentiment." Haldar nodded, feeling as if he was slowly but surely losing control of this conversation, given that he had ever had it in the first place. "I appreciate your directness, Lord Legolas. But as I already told Commander Meneldir…"

"…you cannot discuss this question. Yes, I know," Legolas interrupted the man. "And I do not wish for you to tell me what brought you here or what questions or demands or messages the Dúnedain have for Lord Elrond. I am but a guest here, and such questions do not concern me. If the matter in any way affects the affairs of Mirkwood, I am sure Lord Elrond will inform me or my king in a timely and appropriate manner. To pursuit the issue any further would dishonour me and my lord and insult Lord Elrond and his family."

"Then I am at a loss to explain this question of yours, my lord," Haldar said.

"Oh, but I do not think you are." Legolas shook his head. "I am a friend of Lord Elrond's sons – of all of them, of the twins as well as of Estel. I have known him for almost three years now, and we have been through many dangers together and have always emerged victorious." A small smile suddenly appeared on his lips. "Or have been dragged out of them victorious, or something like that. The point is that we have faced things many men or elves wouldn't even dream about in their worst nightmares, and we have prevailed. And do you know why, Master Ranger?"

"No." The ranger shook his head. His eyes were serious and calm, and he was quite clearly unwilling to volunteer any information whatsoever. "Why?"

"Because we trust each other," the elf answered him, unperturbed by the man's tone of voice. "And because he knows that I will always watch his back when he's not able to it himself, and because I know that he will do the same for me if it becomes necessary. And that is why I am here."

"Are you suggesting that I mean him harm?" The ranger's voice sounded torn between amusement and indignation.

"No, of course not," Legolas replied. His face was completely calm and friendly, but his eyes remained alert and fixed on the man's face. "You are a dúnadan, and would no more hurt Estel than I would." He fell silent for a few moments before he continued. "I do not know how much you know about my people, dúnadan. I am, as I said before, a wood-elf. The Silvan Elves rarely possess the gift of foresight like the Noldor do; there aren't nearly as many "gifted" elves at my king's court as there are here in Rivendell. I do not have this gift nor does any other member of my family, and I believe that many of your people possess it to a greater degree than I do."

Haldar gave him a careful look. He was clearly not able to see in what direction this was going and wasn't sure he cared to find out, either.  
"I think you are exaggerating, Master Elf, but yes, some of my people possess the gift you speak of."

"Then you know what I am talking about." Legolas nodded solemnly. "It is something I have never wished for, either. So let me tell you something: Even though I have never shown an inkling of the gift we speak of, at least no more than all of my people do, I know that something is going to happen, something terrible, something that might as well throw this world into darkness if it is not stopped. I trust my instincts; they have never led me astray. You saw Estel, or so I heard; he knows it, too, even if he doesn't realise it yet."

The ranger studied him for long seconds before he finally shook his head.  
"I do not know."

"You do not know, or you do not wish to tell me?" Legolas asked. "I am his friend, Haldar. I would never do anything to harm him, and I know how to hold my tongue." Something flickered in the man's grey eyes and Legolas looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Is that it? You are afraid that I might talk to somebody about this conversation?"

"No." Haldar shook his head slowly. "I would not do you the dishonour. You are King Thranduil's son, and never has it been said that the Elvenking would break his word."

Astonishment shortly crossed the wood-elf's face before the expressionless mask once again laid itself over his features.  
"You know me?"

"I would rather say that I have heard of you, you Highness." The ranger smiled. "The Rangers seldom travel across the Misty Mountains, but we have our sources and hear many things. Your name was mentioned here and there."

"It seems I must ask your forgiveness," Legolas said, sounding almost amused. "I had not thought you would know who I was." He shrugged. "Not that it matters. I am here as Estel's friend, not as the Prince of Mirkwood."

"But you _are_ the Prince of Mirkwood," Haldar retorted. "And you cannot discard that, just as he cannot discard what and who he is."

The fair-haired elf's head came up with a start and he stared at the ranger for a long time. The first time he had come to Rivendell with Estel, Lord Elrond had impressed upon him the absolute necessity to never speak a word to anybody about what he had learned, about the fact that the boy he had run into and who had saved his life was in fact Isildur's Heir. Should the Enemy find out about Aragorn's existence before the time, there was no telling what might happen.

And he had not, Legolas thought to himself. He had never mentioned it to anybody, not even his own father before Lord Elrond had given him permission, and to hear some stranger, be he a ranger or not, all but say it in his face was enough to actually make him stop in mid-motion.

"No," he finally said, his eyes not leaving the man's face. "I suppose we cannot. But I have been keeping this secret, Haldar, longer, I think, than you have even known it. And I would die to protect it, and him, even though he would never want to let me." He took a deep breath. "That is why I am here, dúnadan. How can I protect him when I do not know what is going on? I do not wish you to tell me the secrets of your people; the dealings and ways of mortals interest my king little and are therefore not my concern. All I wish to know is if my friend is in danger. Is that so much to ask for?"

Haldar sighed and shook his head, a small smile on his lips.  
"No, your Highness, of course it is not. I have friends as well and have … had … a brother. I know what you are talking about, yet I cannot help you. I came to Rivendell because we do not know what is happening. We do not know if Strider is in any danger, we do not know if the Enemy has learned of his existence. It is possible, that is all I can tell you."

"How possible?"

The man sighed again.  
"In my opinion – very possible. Lord Elrond may choose not to believe it, but I have no such objections. I believe that, yes, the Dark One is looking for Isildur's Heir – and that he will stop at nothing to find him."

Legolas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was silent for several minutes before he opened them again and shook his head, a small, sad smile on his lips.  
"You cannot imagine how much I'd hoped you wouldn't say that."

"Oh, but I can," the man answered with the same kind of mirthless smile. "I'd hoped I would never have to say it."

"You are right," Legolas admitted. "That, I _can _imagine. Those are ill tidings you bring, ranger."

"Strange." The man smiled that mirthless smile again. "That is just what Lord Elrond said when I spoke with him."

"There is nothing else to say." Legolas shrugged. "Why would you think that Estel is in danger?"

"That I cannot tell you," Haldar said firmly.

"Cannot – or will not?"

"That, your Highness, is wholly your choice to make." The man smiled at him, friendly. "I will and can not tell you more. If Lord Elrond chooses to inform you, that is well and his prerogative, but our conversation ends here."

A flicker of anger could be seen in the elf's silvery blue eyes that he didn't even bother to hide. It was enough to darken his face in a way Haldar would not have thought possible, and for a moment, the beautiful elf he had been speaking with was gone, replaced by something old and proud and terrible. A second later the impression was gone as the elf shook his head, a sort of grudging amusement spreading over his face.

"One thing is certain, Master Ranger: You were not sent here for your diplomatic skills."

"Oh, but I was," Haldar said, his quick heartbeat only reluctantly slowing down. That was another reason why he didn't like dealing with elves: They were so damned frightening and mercurial. "If they'd wanted to anger you, they would have sent my captain."

Legolas smiled slightly even though it did not really reach his eyes. He remained completely still, staring at Haldar in a way that made the man distinctly uncomfortable, before he inclined his head with a small smile.

"Very well. I accept your decision. I have to admit that I had hoped that there was more you could tell me."

"Trust me, Master Elf, but so do I. And that, I swear by Eru Ilúvatar himself, is the truth."

"That, Haldar, I never doubted." Legolas gave him a long, solemn look before he got to his feet, moving so quickly that the man's eyes seemed to slide off the movement rather than following it. "You will be at the feast tonight?"

"I … yes," Haldar answered, confused by the sudden change of topics. "I promised Lord Elrond I would be there."

"Good." Legolas nodded his head. "I will see you then. Enjoy the gardens."

And before Haldar could say a single word or even move, he was gone, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared. One minute he was there and the second he wasn't, there was simply no better way to describe it. Haldar stared at the spot where the elf had been no more than ten seconds ago before he slowly shook his head.

Mercurial, the whole lot of them.

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_muindor (nín) - (my) brother  
losdalas - 'sleep-leaf', a healing herb with anaesthetic properties  
gwanur - (twin) brother  
ada - father (daddy)  
mellon nín - my friend  
dúnadan (pl.: dúnedain) - 'Man of the West', ranger_

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Poor Haldar. I think he doesn't really have a pleasant assignment, poor guy. Having to face an annoyed Legolas just can't be fun... Okay, so as I said I won't be able to post in a week (or rather six days since FF-net was being an idiot again), sorry again. Sometimes college can be really annoying. •grimaces• Anyway, it should be here in two weeks at the very latest. Since I don't think that reviews would still count as Christmas presents, I can only assure you that they will join the previous ones and will be used as wallpaper. They're very pretty. Really. So: Review, please?**

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**Additional A/N:**

**My apologies to Kuramagal, Mirwen Sunrider, Atimys and Clone Trooper (Still! •g•) for not including them in my group email. Remember, if you would like to be included in the review replies, either log in and make sure you have a valid email address on your profile page or, if you prefer to review anonymously, leave your email address. Thanks!**


	6. At the End of Day

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Gods, I'm so scatterbrained at the moment that it's not even funny anymore. I mean, it was in the beginning, kind of, but now it's just annoying. This whole presentation thing didn't work out the way it was supposed to - no surprise there, I guess. We had this huge storm here last week, which meant that they cancelled all afternoon classes, and so we had to give that presentation this week. We're not even done yet; we have to finish it next Thursday. I mean, honestly, we have been talking about the conquest of Jerusalem for more than two weeks now, and it's still not been conquered. It's beginning to take us longer than it took the Crusaders. Yes, we're kind of ineffective. •g•**

**So, apparently we are now switching to updates on Fridays, since I don't want to keep you guys waiting even longer. Wouldn't really be fair, now would it? I really appreciate all your patience - FF-net going bonkers and screwing everything up helped a little, too, I guess. It just went back to normal a week or so ago, for which I am really grateful. •gives FF-net dark look• Don't do it again! •sighs• It always ignores me.**

**Okay, enough of this and on to the chapter! What do we have ... oh yes, THAT. •g• So, Aragorn wakes up and talks to Legolas (or rather Legolas talks to him), Glorfindel finds out that Erestor can be quite devious and they and Elrond worry some more for good measure, Haldar is being unreasonably brave, and someone realises that being a ranger can be a dangerous thing indeed. Go ahead and blame my alter ego, I know you want to. •g•**

**Enjoy and review, please!**

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Chapter 6

His arm hurt. It was very strange indeed, since he was rather sure that it wasn't supposed to hurt, strange enough in fact to make him stop all other thought processes – as they were, at that – and consider it thoroughly.

In his present state of mind, that didn't mean much.

He still hadn't got past "My arm hurts.", "It shouldn't hurt." and "How could it possibly be hurting?", let alone strung them together into a reasonably logical chain, when the pain in his arm intensified again, giving him the distinct impression that someone had just poked him with a blunt stick.

"…come now, Aragorn! Wake up!"

Ah, that made sense, he told himself sleepily. A blunt stick had nothing on Legolas' fingers when the elf was determined to get you to do something. He still couldn't figure out just what was going on or why he was feeling so completely exhausted, but there was a faint, lingering drowsiness hovering at the back of his mind, threatening to pull him under again. He knew that kind of sleepiness well; it usually meant that he had lost consciousness in a rather spectacular fashion (normally something connected to massive blood loss or hard blows to the head) or had been drugged.

He couldn't quite remember what had happened that had landed him in this particular position, but he was sure that his father hadn't suddenly changed the opinion he had so stubbornly defended these past months. It was more or less saying that he, his brothers and Legolas were magnets for trouble, chaos and mayhem, that the whole of Arda would be far better off if someone tossed them into a cell and threw away the key and that Elrond considered it his duty and obligation to ensure that they didn't leave Imladris and got into anymore trouble.

His foster father was nothing if not unrelenting, and his dogged persistency had made sure that nothing interesting at all had happened since they had returned to Rivendell. It wasn't that he was complaining, of course, and he knew that his father only meant well, but sometimes his family's over-protectiveness could really…

"Aragorn! Could you please open your eyes, just for a little bit? Come now, you are beginning to become … boring."

Well, in Legolas' defence: He _had _been rambling. That still didn't mean that he would allow the wood-elf to insult him as he pleased.

"'M … not 'ring…"

Aragorn frowned inwardly. That had sounded far more mature and articulated in his head. The fact didn't seem to be lost on Legolas, for only seconds later a soft chuckle could be heard that was quickly bitten off again.

"Yes, you are, _mellon nín_. Now open your eyes and glare at me; you know you want to."

Aragorn did want to, but opening his eyes sounded far easier than it really was. If he didn't know any better, he would have said that someone had glued his eyes shut, but not even his brothers would stoop that low, especially not if they had drugged him first. He couldn't really remember why they would drug him, but he had enough experience being drugged to know that the only way he would ever find out was opening his eyes, no matter how hard is sounded.

And besides, Legolas was sounding far too smug.

It took him a minute or two – or rather three or four –, but finally he managed to pry one stubborn eyelid open. It wasn't far more than half an inch, but it was enough to see Legolas' face swim into focus. It slowly solidified in an annoyingly reluctant fashion, but in the end he could see his friend clearly, and the laborious act of blinking back the darkness that was lurking at the edges of his vision and trying to make sense of what was going on around him was enough to allow him to remember what had happened. The memories slammed into him with the force of a huge wave breaking against the shore, and he had to close his eyes against the onslaught.

"No, not again," Legolas' voice complained. "Your brothers made me promise I would wake you, and wake you I shall. They are unbearable enough as it is; the last thing I need is them having any more reason – or any reason at that – to look smug."

Aragorn, who had been faced with the same problem numerous times during his childhood and youth, could sympathise with that sentiment. He could remember more clearly now, the dreams – visions – whatever they were, the talk with his father, and then Elrohir more or less force-feeding him that horrible potion of his. After that there was darkness, a black, suffusing, almost choking blackness that was only punctuated now and then by small specks of light and colour, half-glimpsed images and voices. His brothers had been there, that he knew, but if they had tried to wake him or if he had almost managed to rise back to consciousness himself, he did not know.

"Aragorn?" Legolas asked again. "Are you asleep again?"

"Yes," the man replied, his voice soft and rough. "Yes, I am. You are nothing but a bad dream. Go away."

"Why, drugs _do _make you testy," Legolas complained. "Open your eyes and give me the _look_. It will make you feel better, trust me."

This time, Aragorn managed to open his eyes fully. To his never-ending relief, the light that met his eyes was dim and faint, and a few seconds later he could clearly see his friend and his surroundings. The last rays of the setting sun were filtering through the gap between the curtains, and it took Aragorn's addled brain a few seconds to calculate that he must have slept at least twelve hours. He frowned. He distinctly remembered his father telling Elladan that he wanted him to rest for six hours. The man inwardly shook his head. He had told Elrohir that he was using too much _losdalas_, hadn't he?

"Aragorn?" Legolas asked again, a worried frown on his face. "Can you hear me?"

"The better question is, how could I not hear you?" the ranger replied, giving the elf perched on the edge of his bed a sour look. "You are sitting a foot away from me."

"See?" Legolas beamed at him, ignoring his words and his testiness. "Giving me the _look _made you feel better. You can admit it."

"Has anyone ever told you that you can be unbearably cheerful?"

"I am an elf," Legolas retorted, unimpressed. "Of course I am cheerful."

"A lunatic, that's what you are." Aragorn shook his head. The sudden movement made his vision tilt around its own axis, and the man slowly brought up his hands to cradle his aching skull. He would have a word with Elrohir, that much was sure. "All of you Wood-elves are, actually, so it's not really your fault."

"How kind of you to say so." The elf smiled at him. "I will be sure to tell my father." His smile widened. "That should garner an interesting reaction, don't you think?" Aragorn only grimaced, quite clearly already imagining war, chaos and blood, but Legolas ignored him and continued. "Very well. Your brothers have entrusted me with your care…"

"Eru help me."

"…and I will not let them down," Legolas went on. "I am quite attached to my head, after all. It seems that someone made a slight mistake with one of the herbs; we have been trying to get you to wake up for hours. The twins have gone to talk to your father, but they told me to make sure that you were all right when you woke up."

"Is Rivendell under attack?" Aragorn asked, his brow furrowing in mock concern. "Have all the healers been assigned to field duty? Are things really that desperate?"

"Very funny." Legolas smiled blissfully at his human friend. "If you go on like this, I might clout you over the head and throw you off the balcony and into the Bruinen."

"You have been talking to Elladan, haven't you?"

"Maybe I have." The fair-haired shrugged. "Now," he began, doing his best to imitate Hithrawyn, his father's rather self-important healer back in Mirkwood, "do you know your name?"

"You have got to be joking, Legolas."

"I will take that as a yes." Legolas nodded to himself. "Does your head hurt? Do you see double? Do you know what day it is?"

"I drank a sleeping potion, Legolas. I didn't hit my head."

"Well, those are the only questions I can remember that would be appropriate for such a situation," Legolas admitted. "Hithrawyn always asks me things like that, usually interspersed with things like 'The king really should chain you to a tree.' Or 'Why oh why do you keep doing such things to me?'" The elf shrugged, as if he couldn't for the life of him understand why the older elf would say such things. "So, do you?"

"The sixtieth day of _Lairë_," Aragorn all but growled. "Will you please stop being so happy? It gives me a headache."

Legolas' face turned serious in a second.  
"Do you want me to get someone?"

Aragorn removed his hands from his head and gave his friend a questioning look, pushing a wayward strand of hair out of his eyes to see him better.  
"What happened to your new persona of 'Legolas Thranduilion, healer extraordinaire'?"

"Estel."

Seeing the genuine worry in the wood-elf's silver-blue eyes, Aragorn gave up and sighed deeply.  
"No, thank you. I am fine."

"You have been saying the same thing for the past week, _mellon nín_; forgive me for not being willing to believe you just like that."

"I was fine," Aragorn insisted. Legolas only looked at him, and after a second the man only lowered his head and shrugged. For a second, he looked a lot like a little boy who had done something he knew he shouldn't have been doing. "I _was_," he repeated quietly. "During the day, that was. If you had asked me at night, though…"

"I did ask you," Legolas reminded his friend. "And you said you were all right and only a little tired."

"I was tired." Aragorn tried to smile at the elf. "I still am. I … ah, Morgoth take it. I am sorry, Legolas. I didn't mean to lie to you."

To his utter surprise, the elf only smiled at him.  
"It is all right, Aragorn. I understand."

"You do?" Aragorn looked positively astonished.

"Well – not really," Legolas admitted. "I don't understand what is happening to you, at least not really, and I probably never will. But I understand why you didn't tell me."

"That's one, then," the young man said somewhat bitterly. "_I _can hardly remember why I am doing the things I do, after all."

"You were … frightened," Legolas said, clearly searching for the right words. "It is understandable."

"I wasn't frightened," Aragorn protested, his voice utterly emotionless. "I was terrified. I still am. I … it's just that the … the images, they were…"

"Don't." The elf shook his head. "You don't have to tell me, Aragorn. I understand that they aren't something you would like to … discuss with anybody."

Aragorn laughed mirthlessly as he allowed himself to flop back into his pillows. For a second, he was truly tempted to pull the thin sheets over his head and disappear under of them forever; anything in order not to have to face this.

"You could say that." He raised his hands to his face and pressed the palms into his eyes, as if trying to erase the images that were ineradicably burned into the insides of his eyelids. "Someone died, Legolas. I don't know who or where or how, but someone is dead."

"You don't know that," Legolas told him reasonably. "You did not see someone die, did you?"

"No," the man admitted. "But I did not have to. I don't know how to put it into words, Legolas, but I just know. It's like tending to someone who has been injured in a fight or an accident, or to sick humans; sometimes, when you look at them or touch them, you just know that they will die, no matter how superficial or harmless the wounds or the illness might appear."

"You can feel that?" Legolas asked, blinking in surprise. Granted, he had often seen warriors on the field who he had known would die, but that had little relation to his perceptiveness or training in the healing arts but rather to common sense. Few people tended to survive when they had been skewered through the gut with a scimitar, for example.

The young ranger bowed his head.  
"Every single time."

"I am sorry, Aragorn," the elf said, reaching out to touch the man's arm. "I did not know."

"It's all right." Aragorn shrugged in a demonstratively unconcerned manner. "A lot of healers do; it's nothing extraordinary, at least not here in Imladris."

"Here in Imladris a lot of things aren't considered extraordinary that would be considered highly strange or disconcerting in any other place." Legolas shook his head in mock seriousness, but the deep concern in his eyes did not diminish. "I wonder why that might be?"

"I haven't got the slightest idea." Aragorn blinked at him in his best innocent-wide-eyed-fawn impression. "You might want to ask _ada_."

"Oh yes, I'll definitely do that." Legolas snorted. "There are better, more entertaining ways of starting a war between Mirkwood and Imladris, ranger."

"Really? You will have to tell me about them one day."

"One day, maybe, when you have proven yourself worthy, _pen-neth_," Legolas said as pompously as he could. "It is a well-kept secret, and I would not entrust it to anybody but someone who has proven himself completely reliable."

"That shall be my life's goal, then." Aragorn nodded seriously, clearly suppressing a small yawn that wanted to creep up on him yet again. "A worthy endeavour, no doubt."

"No doubt," the fair-haired elf agreed. He looked at his man beside him, a long, searching look that would have made anybody not raised in an elven household decidedly uncomfortable. "We will find out what is going on here, _mellon nín_, that much I promise you."

Aragorn looked as if he didn't know if he should smile or shake his head.  
"Will we?"

"Do you not believe me?"

"I believe that you believe it," the man answered cautiously. "But I do not think I can believe it."

"We have faced many far more difficult problems and foes, and we have always prevailed," Legolas told him. "I know that you are confused right now, but you are not alone in this. And while I, as a humble wood-elf, may not know a lot about what is going on here, your father and brothers do. They will help you, Aragorn, if you will only let them."

"By Varda and the Queens, if I wrote a journal, I would mark this week!" Aragorn exclaimed in mock shock. "First Celylith, then you? What is going on with you Wood-elves? Don't tell me reality has finally set in and you have realised that you are just as ordinary as the other tribes!"

"Elves, wood-elves or not, are never ordinary, _dúnadan_."

"No, of course not." Aragorn bowed his head. "I don't know why I would say such a shameful thing."

"I do," Legolas told him with a small, wan smile. "You are trying to change the subject."

"Yes," Aragorn admitted with the same kind of smile. "I suppose I am." He took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes before he opened them again, the muscles in his jaw working. "I … I just don't know what to believe at the moment," he finally said. "I told _ada _what I had seen and there really aren't a lot of details to be analysed or interpreted. He told me that until I remembered more of what I had seen there was really no way we could be sure about anything."

"And you don't want to remember." Legolas' voice was soft and quiet.

"Eru, no!" the man exclaimed and pushed his unruly hair away from his face with a nervous, almost compulsive movement. "Anything but that, actually. I … it's … I am completely helpless when I have one of these … visions, Legolas. I know that they are no dreams; I think I knew long before today. I am fully aware of the fact that I should pay attention and that what I see cannot harm me, but the feelings are too intense and too … dark…"

"Then you won't have to," his elven friend assured him, grasping his hands and pulling them away from his face in order to make the man look at him. "We will find a way to discover what is going on."

"How?" Aragorn asked tiredly. "How are we going to do that? I don't know anything about who it is that died, or where or how or when. It could have happened in a hundred places, or out in the wild where there are no witnesses and no traces to give away the deed."

"The old-fashioned way – we look," Legolas told him, a mildly teasing glint in his eyes. It disappeared quickly when he remembered his earlier conversation with Haldar, and the warning the ranger had brought. It was just an idea, but he had the looming feeling that the man had been right to fear for his chieftain. "The answer might be more obvious than you think."

Tired, stressed and exhausted as he was, Aragorn was still astute enough to know when information was being withheld from him.  
"What is it you are not telling me, Legolas?

"There are a lot of things I am not telling you, ranger," Legolas said evasively. "Amongst them what I _really _think of the Noldor and…"

"Now who is being elusive?" Aragorn smiled at him. "What happened?"

"Not what, but rather who," Legolas mumbled, but shook his head at the man's prompting look. "I really think your father should speak with you about this. It is not my place to tell."

"But will he?" the man asked and once again leaned back, sighing in exasperation. "There are a lot of things I am not told because I am 'too young' or 'too inexperienced' – or simply a man."

"You know that is not true, Estel," the elf said mildly. "Your father couldn't care less if you were a hobbit."

"True." Aragorn nodded with a smirk, but there was a slightly shame-faced, serious glint in his eyes that did not go unnoticed by the elven prince. "The kitchen staff might, though."

"No hobbit could be worse than Elrohir," Legolas said with a shudder of mock horror. "That elf must possess two stomachs."

"Very possible." The man nodded again. They were exaggerating, of course, even though Elrohir did possess quite an appetite and, if properly motivated, could eat impressive amounts of food. "Why _ada _never noticed anything is beyond me, though."

"Even the Wise make mistakes." Legolas shrugged. He gave the young man next to him a searching look, his eyes lingering on his face a fraction of a second longer as he took in the signs of tiredness that were still very easily visible on Aragorn's white features. "Should I get you some more of Elrohir's potion? He adjusted the mixture accordingly, I believe, so you should only sleep till sunrise this time."

"What it is with him and _losdalas_, I will never understand," Aragorn muttered. A moment later he raised his head and looked at the fair-haired elf, a faint smile on his lips. "But no, thank you, my friend. I do not think I am feeling that brave today."

"Estel, you need to rest," Legolas told him seriously. "You still look like someone who has just dragged himself home after a run-in with a horde of orcs, or someone coming out of a negotiation with Lord Erestor. If you would turn any whiter, I would think you were becoming a wraith and would fetch the _athelas_."

The man's smile widened at that.  
"That would surely be interesting." Seeing that Legolas was opening his mouth to argue his point once more, he added, "Do not worry. I will try and sleep without it; I think there is still enough of the draught in my system to ensure that the … dreams … do not return, or if they do, then not in the same intensity."

Legolas narrowed his eyes as he clearly tried to find a fault in that reasoning.  
"Are you sure?" he finally asked.

"Quite sure." Aragorn nodded his head. "I hate the taste of _losdalas_. And besides, it usually gives me a headache."

The blond prince still didn't look very convinced, but one look at Aragorn's steely grey eyes was enough to convince him of the futility of further debate.  
"Very well then, if you are sure," he said haltingly. "I will stay here for a while yet."

"You don't have to," Aragorn said quickly, but he made no move to dissuade his friend. That, more than anything before, told Legolas how horrible the nightmares had to be. "You should go and enjoy the feast."

"Oh, I intend to," Legolas told him, a somewhat cold smile on his face as he remembered how he had taken leave of Haldar earlier this evening. He would most certainly be in the Hall of Fire tonight, just in case the ranger decided to be a little bit more forthcoming. He had looked like a determined one, but no mortal could possibly out-stare or be more stubborn than a wood-elf, with the possible exception of Aragorn. "But if I am not here, I am sure Celylith or one of your brothers will want to take my place." He smiled. "Who knows, maybe Captain Isál might even come. He is looking particularly paranoid today, and with good reason."

"Why?" Aragorn asked, a small frown marring his forehead. "What has Dólvorn done now?"

"Are you really sure you want to know?" Legolas asked, arching his eyebrows dramatically. He could hardly hide the small smile that wanted to spread over his face; Aragorn looked half-asleep again, and he very much doubted that the man would stay awake long enough to even get past the 'where-and-when' part of the story, not to mention get to the 'what'. "I only heard it from Ingvaer, and what he told me sounded … painful."

"Oh, I most certainly want to know." Aragorn nodded and moved into a more comfortable position, his eyelids once again beginning to feel unusually heavy. Legolas nodded and clearly prepared to begin his lengthy tale, but before the elf could say anything, he added, "Thank you, _mellon nín_. And I believe you."

"Believe me?" the elven prince repeated with a smile.

"That we will find out what is going on," Aragorn clarified. "You promised, after all, and since you are the Prince of Mirkwood, you cannot possibly be wrong. It would simply be wrong, and I don't think the world would be able to cope."

"My thoughts exactly." Legolas grinned at him. "And there is no need to thank me, Estel. You would do the same for me."

"Yes," Aragorn said quietly. "I believe I would."

"There you have it," Legolas pointed out before he once again assumed his storytelling pose. "Now, do you wish to hear the story?"

Aragorn only nodded and motioned him to begin, and only a few minutes later Legolas was proven right: By the time he had reached the really interesting part, the young man was fast asleep again, his pale face relaxed and peaceful. Legolas only smiled and pulled the sheets up to cover the man's bare torso.

It was probably for the best, anyway. What Ingvaer had told him _did _sound painful, and the last thing Aragorn needed was another thing to give him nightmares.  
**  
** **  
** **  
**  
"…would you not agree? My lord?"

Glorfindel blinked quickly and refocused his attention on the elf in front of him. It wasn't something he really wanted to do – he was really quite content watching the dark clouds gathering on the horizon, promising rain and cooler winds – but, well, to do anything else would be impolite. His conversational partner was one of Erestor's aides, the one with the dark hair whose name the elf lord simply couldn't remember, try as he might. And he did try; Erestor always saw it as an insult when he couldn't remember his aides' names, and besides, it wasn't very polite toward the young one, either.

The golden-haired elf lord did his best to keep up an unconcerned façade and not betray the fact that he had no idea what the younger elf was talking about. He hadn't been listening to what he had been saying for quite some time now, and for all he knew, he could have been stating that he wanted someone to kill his boss and that he, Glorfindel, looked just like the right elf for the job.

Glorfindel really hoped he hadn't. Not that he would ever harm Erestor – seriously, that was –, but even if someone else did, Elrond would probably find a way to blame himself and be unbearable for centuries. And he would also find a way to blame it on him (Elrond was an elf who believed in sharing) and make him help him find a new chief councillor.

"My lord?" the younger elf repeated, looking faintly worried. "Are you all right?"

For a second Glorfindel contemplated letting the other elf in on his thoughts just to see how quickly he would start running away screaming at the top of his lungs – most of Erestor's aides weren't exactly what you would call highly funny and humourous individuals –, but in the end he decided against it. He really didn't want to explain to his fellow elf lord why he had scared one of his assistants.

"Yes, thank you," he finally replied with a bright and thoroughly fake smile. That, however, the other elf did notice. Erestor's aides might not be very funny, but they were astute. "I am fine."

The younger elf shot him a look that clearly stated that he doubted that, but in the end he was too well-bred to say anything. Or too intelligent, because if there was one thing the whole of Imladris knew, it was that Lord Glorfindel couldn't stand being disrespected.

"Very well, my lord. Do you agree, then?"

Glorfindel's eyes grew the tiniest bit wider, but otherwise he didn't betray the dilemma he was in. Unless he wanted to show the young one that he had systematically been tuning him out for the past ten minutes, he would have to say something.  
"Essentially, I do," he finally answered cautiously. "There are a few aspects of the problem that still require further deliberations, though."

There, the golden-haired elf thought, satisfaction beginning to spread through him. That should be ambiguous enough, shouldn't it? Unfortunately for him, Erestor's aide didn't agree with his assessment.

"That is why I came to you, my lord," the dark-haired elf said, looking at him earnestly. "We think that you would be most suited for the task. So, can I tell Commander Thalar that you will take care of it?"

"Yes," Glorfindel answered automatically before he could stop himself. "Of course."

A second later, reality set in and awoke in him the very vivid urge to start banging his head against a wall. Why oh why couldn't he think before opening his mouth, at least once? If he remembered correctly, that was also how the whole business with the balrog had started back in the First Age.

"Perfect!" the other elf beamed at him, completely oblivious to his thoughts. "I shall inform the commander momentarily. If you would excuse me, my lord…"

Glorfindel could only nod, stunned, and watched how the younger elf gave him a bow and turned around to disappear in the crowd. The Hall of Fire was quite full today since it was still relatively early and there was also a special reason for the feast – rangers didn't come to Imladris every day, after all. Elves in general – and the inhabitants of Rivendell were no exception – were notoriously curious, and the ranger in question found himself the centre of attention of a large percentage of the warriors and quite a lot of other people.

He didn't look too happy about it, either, Glorfindel remarked to himself while he shot the dark-haired man and the group of warriors crowded around him a quick look.

A small chuckle behind him attracted his attention, and he quickly turned around. To his surprise, he came face to face with Elrond who was clad in one of his more formal robes of a deep burgundy colour. He looked as regal as always, with his hair braided, tied back neatly and adorned with a slim, sparkling mithril circlet; the only thing that distracted somewhat from that impression was the half-elf's rather gleeful expression. That wasn't what surprised him, actually – not even the 'Elrond-looking-gleeful part', the half-elf could be evil like that –, but rather the presence of another elf who was standing right next to his lord and friend. He was dressed in robes that were just as costly and well-made but a lot less ornate, this one in a dark colour of which Glorfindel had never been sure whether it was a kind of dark grey or perhaps a very washed-out black. His dark hair was properly braided and hung in long, heavy strands down his back, and his expression was guarded and carefully impassive.

The last person he had expected to see tonight had been Erestor, Glorfindel thought, struggling to hide the surprise he felt.

"I am happy my plight amuses you so, my lord," he told his grinning lord, deciding that it was far safer to address him than Erestor, especially considering how their last conversation had turned out. "That elf is a menace."

"He is not," Erestor protested softly, serious grey eyes fixing on his friend's face. Try as he might, Glorfindel couldn't figure out if he was completely serious or not. "He takes his duties very serious, that is all."

"Apparently." The golden-haired elf nodded, weary acceptance on his face. He turned back to Elrond pleadingly, as if he was hoping that his friend would deliver him from his predicament. "What did I just agree to?"

"That, _mellon nín_, even I do not know. Perhaps you should have listened to him before agreeing to his proposal?"

Elrond had the audacity to shrug, the gleeful expression still on his face. Glorfindel cast his friend's heavy robes an evil look and hoped malevolently that he was feeling at least a little hot. He knew that elves didn't sweat – not even half-elves, to his knowledge –, but that wouldn't stop him from hoping.

"It couldn't have been anything really serious," Erestor said, clearly trying to reassure him. Glorfindel was _not _reassured. Erestor usually considered things like smaller orc invasions or having to play host for a group of dwarves as 'nothing serious'. "Probably just that problem with the inventory."

Glorfindel stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. The dark-haired elf's words couldn't have made a bigger impression if he had spoken them hanging upside down from a chandelier, singing at the top of his lungs.

"'That problem with the inventory'?" the elf lord repeated faintly.

Erestor fought hard to keep up his emotionless façade, but in the end a gleeful smile broke through. A part of Glorfindel was very happy about that, but another part would have liked nothing better than to wipe that smug expression off his face. He couldn't prove anything, but he could have sworn that his friend had sent his assistant after him.

Of course he couldn't prove anything, he thought darkly to himself. Erestor was far too devious to leave any proof of his activities.

"Well, there seems to be a small problem there," his treacherous friend explained, the gleeful expression still firmly affixed to his face. "You see, my Lord Glorfindel, someone seems to have … misplaced … some of the lists."

Glorfindel threw elf-lordly behaviour out of the window and firmly closed his eyes. 'Eru Ilúvatar, strike me down now, be merciful…' This was payback, he just knew it was. While Erestor had been in Aberon, before everything had gone from bad to worse to worst to deadly, he had arranged for some of the councillor's records to be 'misplaced'. It had been a ploy to get Elrond to take some rest and was a very complicated tale; all that mattered was that his intentions had been _good _and _honourable_.

Well, maybe more good than honourable, but still. The records hadn't truly been lost, of course; he had always known where they'd been. There was only one problem: While all of them had been gone to save Erestor and Elrond's sons and the Prince of Mirkwood (and what an interesting experience that had been!), the documents really _had _disappeared. It was something that didn't surprise Glorfindel overly much; they had left without prior notice and in a hurry, and the councillors, captains and secretaries who had run Rivendell in their absence had had enough to worry about; the least of their concerns had been the proper way to file some of Erestor's – incidentally rather unimportant – reports.

It had been an accident, an unfortunate coincidence that might have happened anywhere.

Unfortunately, Erestor was of the opinion that such things did, in fact, _not _happen in Imladris and that his, Glorfindel's, intentions had been neither good nor honourable and that he had orchestrated all this just to annoy him. It wasn't too far-fetched, Glorfindel had to admit that – under different circumstances he might have done something like this. But he hadn't, that was all that mattered, and so he found himself in the rare position of being accused of something he had actually had no part in.

It was a highly annoying experience; if Erestor's wrath was centred on him in all its glory, he wanted to have at least the consolation of knowing that he had done something (preferably something entertaining) to deserve such disfavour.

"Indeed," Elrond chimed in, sounding faintly amused. How nice that at least one person was enjoying all this, Glorfindel thought. "And it happened so suddenly, too. It was most strange."

"Strange things can happen from time to time, even in Imladris," Erestor said, looking far too innocent to be anything but guilty. "Is that not what you said not too long ago, my friend?"

Glorfindel gave him a look that was quite easily decipherable and smiled at him in a way that promised painful retribution.  
"And what kind of lists would they be?"

"Oh, nothing truly important," Erestor waved his words aside with a move of his hand. "Only the inventories of the armouries."

Glorfindel felt how his blood ran cold.  
"Surely you mean the inventories of _some _of the armouries, do you not?"

Erestor only grinned at him in that serene, thoroughly gleeful manner of his that was so rare to be seen – and now even rarer –, and Glorfindel simply forgot to be angry or annoyed, forgot in fact to be anything but glad with all his heart. Even before Donrag he hadn't seen that look on his friend's face often, and since then he hadn't seen it at all – and not for lack of trying. Suddenly, he didn't care about the inventories, wouldn't even have cared if Erestor had told him that he had just burned all his favourite books. All that mattered was that his friend was grinning at him in a way that should have had him seething with indignation but did in fact do anything but.

"Unfortunately not, my friend," the dark-haired elf lord told him in a far too unconcerned tone of voice. The least the younger elf could do was tremble at the possibility of incurring his wrath, Glorfindel thought sourly. "It is almost as if the inventories had never existed." Erestor paused as he arranged his face into an expression of pondering, innocent ignorance. "A most unusual thing, would you not agree?"

"Yes," Glorfindel said weakly.

"And to answer your question," Elrond once again decided to intervene, most likely in order to either prevent bloodshed or save the golden-haired elf from fainting, "you seem to have agreed to reconstruct the missing inventories. You were the one who raised them in the first place."

"Over the course of three months!"

"Well – yes," Elrond admitted. "But since the lists just disappeared and the trading party from Erebor will arrive in two weeks…"

"Ah yes, that," Glorfindel mumbled, shooting a _look _worthy of his lord at his friend. "A most ... 'unusual' … happenstance."

Elrond looked as if he was biting down on his lip in order not to start laughing. Erestor looked smug and very satisfied. Glorfindel tried not to look like someone who had just agreed to re-inventory all of Rivendell's armouries.

Glorfindel finally averted his gaze when it became clear that Erestor would not back down – first tricked into taking inventories and now being out-stared by Erestor, this wasn't turning out to be a very good day – and desperately cast his mind around for a safer subject.

"So … Haldar did come after all."

Glorfindel decided in this instant that something was wrong with his life. If switching the subject to a certain Messenger of Doom was a positive step, something was _definitely _wrong with his life.

At least it worked. Elrond shifted almost imperceptibly to look at the man in question who was right now standing next to Commander Meneldir and looking the tiniest bit overwhelmed, and Erestor immediately lost that smug look of his. It seemed that Elrond had already informed his chief councillor about Haldar's message, Glorfindel thought, his previous good mood evaporating like snow in the sun.

"Yes, he did," Elrond commented softly, grey eyes fixed on the ranger's face. "I asked him to come, so he did have little choice but to honour my request."

"You can be sneaky, _peredhel_," Glorfindel told his friend with the last, faint tendril of amusement that hadn't abandoned him yet. "And quite unfair."

"If the occasion calls for it, yes."

The half-elf inclined his head, an almost dangerous glint in his eyes. It was clear that the occasion _did _call for it as soon as any of his children was involved. Glorfindel could hardly blame him. They had known that this day would most probably come, had known it ever since the twins had brought Aragorn to Rivendell twenty-one years ago, but no matter how much time they'd had to prepare themselves, it had just not been enough to come to terms with a possibility that would spell doom and death for his best friend's youngest son.

_Sauron might have found out that an Heir still lives, and he just might put two and two together and turn his eye toward Imladris._

The golden-haired elf shuddered inwardly. No, there was really no way to prepare oneself for something like this.

"Did you talk to the twins yet, my lord?" Erestor asked, turning back to look at Elrond. It was probably for the best; not even the most thick-skinned oliphaunt could have ignored the force of three elven stares for long.

Elrond looked at him as if he had just asked if he didn't agree that Morgoth was in reality a nice, misunderstood chap.  
"What do you think?" he asked rhetorically. "They came to me only an hour or so after Haldar had left. They heard of his … worries … from someone they refused to name."

"From Commander Meneldir, no doubt," Erestor said, his face once again calm and composed. "From what I've heard, he seemed to get along with Haldar quite well, and he is also quite protective of the young one."

"He is not the only one," Glorfindel pointed out, gesturing at the tall, fair-haired figure of Prince Legolas who was conversing with the twins in animated tones. Even though it seemed that the wood-elf's attention was wholly focussed on the conversation he was having, Glorfindel could see clearly that he made sure to keep sight of Haldar at all time. "I don't think the prince has taken his eyes off the dúnadan once since he entered the hall."

The presence of all three of them surprised the elf lord for a second, but then he realised that young Celylith was nowhere to be seen. With Aragorn still sleeping, it would have been strange if not at least one of them hadn't been watching over the young man. Now it seemed to be the silver-haired wood-elf's turn, most likely so that the three of them could stare together at poor Haldar.

Now that he thought about it, Glorfindel mused, it seemed that the ranger was quite aware of the fact that he was being stared at but simply kept ignoring the twins and the son of Thranduil. The sheer audacious stupidity of such a tactic notwithstanding, Glorfindel had to give him extra credit for bravery. That was something to be said for all Rangers, after all: They were brave and loyal – and sometimes incredibly foolhardy.

"And none of them has been very happy about what he came to tell you, I take it?" Erestor asked.

"That, my friend, would be the understatement of the millennium," Elrond answered tiredly. "And I cannot help but agree. I know what I told Haldar, that it was impossible, but…" he trailed off and looked at the two of them, so much helplessness and fear in his eyes that Glorfindel would almost have reached out to comfort him. "But what if it is not?" the half-elf finished his thought. "What if the Dark One has learned of Estel's identity?"

"He hasn't."

Elrond raised his eyebrows at Glorfindel's cool answer.  
"How can you be sure? How can any of us be sure?"

"Because, Elrond, as you well know," the older elf replied calmly, "if Sauron had learned that the Heir of Isildur resided in these halls, he would have sent an army in disguise to kill him and thus eradicate his line. If he so much as suspected that the son of Arathorn still lives and has found shelter in Imladris, he would have sent at least one of the Nine to investigate."

"Glorfindel is right, my lord." Erestor nodded his head. "Even if Haldar is right in his assessment – and I am not completely sure that he is –, the Lord of Barad-dûr cannot know for certain that Arathorn's son still lives. He cannot suspect his identity. All he can suspect is that maybe – maybe! – an Heir still lives. That is all."

"Is it not enough?" Elrond asked, running a hand over his face. "If Haldar is right, _He _might learn the truth, and then Aragorn's life will be in mortal danger."

"No dúnadan would talk, Elrond, you know that," Glorfindel told him, golden brows drawing together into a frown. "Few of them know anything worth betraying anyway, and those who do would rather die than give away their people's secrets and their chieftain."

"Everybody talks, Glorfindel," the half-elf stated tiredly. "Everybody. It is only a matter of time, skill and determination, and both you and I know it."

Next to them, Erestor had grown very quiet, his face freezing into a completely emotionless mask. It took Elrond only a second to notice his friend's distress, but he reacted commendable, changing the topic smoothly and with the ease of a practiced politician.

"I hope both of you are right, my friends, I truly do. But if Haldar is indeed right, then Estel's life is in jeopardy, and I will not stand by and watch that happen." He shot Erestor a furtive look and turned to Glorfindel. "Are your captains ready to meet with the council tomorrow? The sooner we can bring some light into this chaos, the better."

"They are, my lord." Glorfindel nodded his head. They'd better be, too; he had spent the better part of the day tracking down all of them – and a good number of commanders and lieutenants – to ensure that they would gather at the main house tomorrow. "I thought we could start with Captain's Elvynd's sector first and then proceed to Captain Isál's. I informed the other captains as well, but I think that, if anyone noticed anything, it would most likely be one of their warriors."

"I agree." Elrond nodded as well. "What about the northern sector? The Ettenmoors have always been a refuge to all manners of dark things."

"I already took care of it; the captain should arrive tomorrow at noon at the very latest. But I think it unlikely; it is too far away from the Angle, and whoever or whatever is behind these killings, I would think that he or they would stay close to their prey."

"The Rangers," Erestor said tonelessly.

"Precisely."

It was silent for a few seconds before Elrond sighed and shook his head.  
"Then everything has been taken care of. You had the guards around the valley doubled?"

"Yes, my lord." Glorfindel inclined his head. "Everybody has been put on alert. If anything tries to breach our borders, it will not come far."

"Good." Elrond tried to smile at him. "Then we can do nothing more but wait."

The golden-haired elf returned the wan smile.  
"So it would seem. Patience, however, is not one of my strong suits."

"Who would have thought?" Erestor arched an eyebrow at him, the echo of that wicked glint reappearing in his eyes. "If you would excuse me for a moment, my lord, Glorfindel. It seems that my aide is requesting my assistance." He gave Elrond a quick bow and was already about to turn away when he stopped for a second to give Glorfindel a small smile. "Who knows, maybe he has questions regarding the inventories?"

A second later he was gone, his slender frame and dark hair disappearing in the crowd of the predominantly dark-haired elves in the blink of an eye. Elrond looked after him for a while before he turned back to Glorfindel, a large smile on his lips.  
"It is a start, isn't it?"

"It is." Glorfindel inclined his head. "Not like before, of course, but a start indeed. Did he come here voluntarily or did you make him?"

Elrond raised an eyebrow.  
"I? Make Erestor do anything? You flatter me, my friend." He shook his head quickly, as if surprised at Glorfindel's strange notion. "He came here voluntarily. I think he wanted to have a look at Haldar himself. I do not think he fully trusts him, or his judgement."

"When does he ever?" Glorfindel asked wryly.

"True." Elrond nodded in agreement. "And, somehow, I cannot find that I disagree with him, at least about the latter part."

Glorfindel found that he couldn't either, but he pushed that thought to the side. There was nothing he or anybody could do to change anything right now or help Estel or his people in any way, most certainly not before they'd questioned all their captains and had seen if anybody knew anything. And then … well, then they would see.

These disconcerting thoughts notwithstanding, the golden-haired elf lord couldn't help but smile as his eyes sought out the figure of his friend who had reappeared at his aide's side and was having a from the looks of it serious conversation with him.

Elrond had been right, as usual. Sometimes, you did not have to do anything. Sometimes, things fixed themselves, somehow, in a way that he did not really understand nor did he think he ever would.

Not that it was important. As long as they did fix themselves, he couldn't have cared less about how they did it. At the end of day, that was what mattered, wasn't it?  
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The night was as dark as a Nazgûl's hood, and while Baran pulled his cloak tighter around himself, he decided two things: That he had to stop drawing such depressing comparisons, and that his cousin just might have been right. Not that that happened often, mind you, but this time he might have been on to something.

His cousin, easy company as he usually was, could be an insufferable know-it-all. Personally, he thought it was because his cousin was jealous that his father had not allowed him to join the Rangers – a most logical and understandable decision, because his older brother had already joined the companies several years ago – and that he was just being an idiot on purpose because of it. Or maybe it was because Hareth, the daughter of his father's neighbour, was smiling at him and wasn't showing the slightest bit of interest in his uncle's son – who knew.

But this time he just might have been correct when he had told him that he would never make it to the camp before nightfall. Well, that wasn't entirely correct. He would have made it, if the tempest hadn't surprised him. It had gathered so quickly that he had literally had no time to prepare, and all he had been able to do was find some sort of shelter before the full force of the storm had hit. It had taken literally hours until the downpour had lessened sufficiently for him to continue on his way, and he now had to be extra careful of the soaked ground and fallen branches and the like.

All in all, he hadn't been making very good time. In addition to that, he was cold and wet and tired, and in absolutely no mood to stumble around in the dark. He had thought about making camp for the night, but had finally decided against it. It shouldn't take him longer than two hours to reach the camp now, and there were no advantages to making camp if he couldn't light a fire. And if his training had taught him anything at all, it was that lighting a fire in the woods when you were alone was stupidity of the rarest kind.

Baran bit his lip when his shin hit a branch he really should have seen long before coming anywhere near it. He had delivered several messages to several camps, guard posts and even some of the villages, including his own, which was why he had stopped at his parents' home for half a day before heading back to rejoin his unit. He didn't know what those messages said – he had just been promoted to group leader, but he really wasn't important enough for his captain or his second-in-command to be included in their counsels –, but he could guess. He was a reasonably intelligent man, or so he liked to believe, and so he (just like the majority of the Rangers) knew what all this was about: The disappearances.

The young man frowned in the darkness. Well, thinking about it, he might not be overly intelligent, because his captain had told him, no, ordered him, not to go anywhere alone at night. In fact, his words had been "If I hear you have been going anywhere after the sun has set, you will be on guard duty for so long that you will have trouble walking without a walking stick by the time I reassign you again."

His captain did not have much of a sense of humour.

He would not have disregarded that order, either, but he really, really had thought he could reach the camp by nightfall. The storm had utterly surprised him and now that the ground was littered with branches and debris and was so soaked through that it threatened to crumble right under his very feet, he very much doubted that he would reach it before the third or fourth hour of the night.

Baran sighed and doggedly trudged on. If he was very lucky, Amlaith would be on duty, in which case he would be able to slip into the camp unnoticed and then pretend to arrive tomorrow morning. If he ran into his captain, he was dead. He stumbled again and cursed under his breath. His captain would have to make due with what was left of him, though.

While the ranger climbed the small hill he sensed more than saw, his thoughts turned to the reason for his mission. There was nothing official yet, no word from his captain or any of the others, but they all knew what this might mean: The Dark Lord had decided to turn his eye towards the Dúnedain once more, to whatever end. It could mean something else, of course, but with as many as eleven rangers missing, rumours and fears were often to be heard. His mother and brothers had done nothing but interrogate him the whole time he had been home, and he had tried to find the right, reassuring words that would assuage their fears.

He didn't think he had succeeded. It was an almost impossible task, too; his mother was an intelligent woman and what his younger brothers lacked in experience, they made up for in intuition. They – and the entire village – had known that there was something seriously wrong and that the leaders of the Rangers knew no more than they did, and that did little to reassure anybody.

It was hard to forget, either; Belen, the son of Baranor the smith, had disappeared about ten days ago and no one had heard from him since. Baran didn't know him well; the man was – or maybe had been – considerably older than himself, closer to sixty, which, viewed from his youthful 32 years of age, seemed to be quite old indeed. He wasn't serving in his unit either; he was stationed somewhere closer to the Mitheithel, nor was he related to him in any way. He did have a brother, though, or at least he thought he did – Haldor? Haldar? Something like that…

A sound to his left drew Baran out of his musings, and the dark-haired man stopped so suddenly that he almost would have overbalanced and fallen. Without even thinking about it, the ranger stepped off the almost invisible path and into the shadow of a large, towering oak tree, moving into the inky darkness in the same way a small animal would have sought refuge in its burrow. Even before all this he would have been careful in a situation like this – the Angle wasn't as safe as it used to be, with the darkness of Mordor encroaching on it more strongly with each passing year –, but now he was willing to react a little bit paranoid.

He hadn't reached the 'ripe' age of 32 by being a careless idiot, after all.

The noise didn't repeat itself, but Baran stayed where he was, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and concentrated as hard as he could. He couldn't see anything but branches that were moved by the still strong wind and hear nothing over the whispering of the trees that would have alerted his senses to any kind of danger. And still … there was something…

The young ranger didn't move for the longest time, head cocked to the side and his eyes scanning his surroundings. There was no one here, he finally told himself. He was overreacting, was allowing his judgement to be clouded by the fears and rumours that were flying through every camp and every settlement of the Dúnedain. That sound might have been everything from another falling branch to a small animal to a protesting tree limb. 'Or,' a small, dark voice whispered in his ear, 'it might have been something else entirely.'

Elbereth be his witness, he hated it when his inner voice made more sense than the voice of reason.

Finally stepping away from the tree, Baran made sure to walk next to the path and not on it. It was slow going and he had to work hard in order to avoid making any noise – which was not nearly as easy as it sounded, with all the fallen branches and the thick undergrowth –, but he felt a lot better this way. _If your enemy expects you to be somewhere, don't be there. _

He had reached the flattened top of the hill and was starting his descend when he heard the sound again, and this time he was very sure that it wasn't a falling branch or a fox darting for cover. It came from his right, something that allowed him to draw several worrying conclusions. Firstly, unless he had been outflanked, there were more than one. Secondly, there was definitely someone here – someone wearing heavy boots. Thirdly, he had exactly three tenths of a second to avoid the blow aimed at his head.

Baran had just the tiniest part of a second to inwardly thank his instructors and dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the wooden club that would nearly have smashed his nose in. Under normal circumstances, he would have continued the movement and would have rolled to his feet to face his foes, but the ground was completely soaked and slippery. Try as he might, the ranger couldn't stop his momentum and slid down the steep path for several feet until he managed to throw his body to the side and came to a stop. He clambered to his feet, cursing under his breath and, trying to extricate his sword from its sheath and untangle his limbs from his now completely muddy cloak, he wiped a strand of dirty hair out of his face with an almost frantic movement and tried spot his attackers.

For a second he thought that there was no one to be seen and that all this was nothing more than a figment of his imagination (which had often been termed fertile), but then he saw a dark shape moving at the edge of his vision, clearly trying to outflank him. He turned to face his attacker, but in the moment he moved, there was another movement to his right, so close to him that he barely had enough time to throw himself to the side. The shape solidified and raised its weapon again, preparing to bring it down on him, but Baran had regained his equilibrium and had thrust his sword upwards, rolling to the side in the same moment. His opponent shrieked when the long blade sank into his ribcage, a shriek that he had heard more times than he could count, and collapsed, dark blood staining the sword that was gleaming dimly in the darkness of the night.

Baran regained his feet, instinctively moving backwards, into the direction of a large tree and the meagre cover it offered him. His mind was reeling even while he saw more dark shapes emerge from the undergrowth, his eyes still fixed on the greyish, hideous face of his dead attacker. The yellow eyes were staring straight ahead, the mouth opened in the horrific parody of a smile, and the sharp, rotting teeth were showing between bloody lips.

A shape lunged at him with a dark club held high, and Baran side-stepped and brought his sword down in the same movement, his mind still trying to come to terms with what was going on. Orcs did not go to such lengths to ambush anybody. Orcs were very rarely capable of conducting an ambush that involved long periods of stalking, observation and patience. Orcs didn't move so soundlessly, or worked together so well, or attacked only with clubs.

The ranger tried to move further back, his eyes darting left and right from one dark shape to the next. He never made it to the tree, though. His attackers suddenly stopped following him as if they had reached an invisible line, standing around him in a tight semicircle from which there would be no escape. He was still wondering just why they would be doing that – these really had to be the most un-orcish orcs he had ever seen! –, when he got his answer – in form of a hard blow to his head that made him drop his sword and instantly brought him to his knees.

A second blow followed the first only a few seconds later, and while Baran fell face-first into the mud, he felt how his consciousness deserted him. The muddy earth felt cold against his cheek, giving him some strength to hold onto consciousness for a moment longer. He felt himself be turned onto his back, the tip of a boot digging into his ribs, and a low voice spoke up, sounding torn between anger, annoyance and some other emotion the ranger could not decipher.

"Good job."

The irony was so thick that even his addled brain could not miss it, and while Baran lost the fight and slid into unconsciousness, he had just enough time and presence of mind left to notice two things: One, that the voice of the one who had knocked him out was not the voice of an orc, and two, that he had never even heard him coming.

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_mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
losdalas (S.) - 'sleep-leaf', a healing herb with anaesthetic properties  
Lairë (Q.) - 'Summer', known in Sindarin as Laer. On a modern calendar, the time between May 22nd and August 1st.  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
pen-neth (S.) - young one  
dúnadan (S.) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
athelas (S.) - 'Kingsfoil', a healing herb  
peredhel (S.) - half-elf_

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Yep, things are beginning to get even nastier. None of it is my fault, of course; my alter ego was beginning to become restless once more. I'm afraid of her, so I had to do something about it - sorry. •evil grin• So, stay tuned for the next chapter, in which everybody worries even more and Aragorn has a little talk with Haldar. Oh, and yes, after that talk he has a very, _very _stupid idea. Doesn't surprise me overly much, I have to admit that. Oh, and yes, reviews are always appreciated. Thanks a lot!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**My sincerest apologies to Kuramagal (FF-net won't let you write an internet or email address in a review, so you would have to review anonymously and leave your email address or ... heck, I don't know, I just hate this site!), Mirwen Sunrider, Tatsumaki-sama and Clone Trooper (I love apologising!) for not including you in the group email I use to reply to reviews. Please remember to either leave a valid email address when you want to review anonymously or to log in (and then to be sure to have an email address listed on your profile page). Oh, and also: FF-net won't allow you to leave email addresses in a review, so you will have to trick it! Sorry and thanks for your understanding!**


	7. To Choose Well

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

Last week something happened to me that has never happened to me before. I was getting the chapter ready to post, was actually almost done, when I looked it over once more and suddenly decided that I didn't like the one scene. As in, I didn't like it at all, didn't like it so much that I just deleted the whole thing and wrote a new one. •shrugs helplessly• I really must apologise to you guys. I don't know what came over me. I have never done that before, not once in over three years. Well, I wrote a new one and am happy with it now, but it took most of the weekend. So, forgive me for the delay. I don't know why it happened, either. It wasn't really a bad scene, I just ... didn't like it anymore. •shrugs again•

One more thing: Jerusalem has finally been conquered! Yay! Only took us about three and a half weeks... •g•

Anything else? •thinks• Nah, I don't think so... All right, so I'm making this short. •rolls eyes at readers• Fine, short-ish. I wouldn't be able to make anything short if my life depended on it, I know. •g• So, what do we have here? Haldar decides that having come to Rivendell wasn't such a great idea after all when he's ambushed yet again, Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas gang up on Celylith to make sure he doesn't have any kind of social life worth mentioning (that's what he says, at least!), and Aragorn tells Elrond about his very, very bad idea. You can imagine how happy Elrond is about that. •g•

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 7

The sun had risen half an hour or so ago, heralding the arrival of yet another beautiful day. Haldar, who sat on a stone bench in a corner of the rose gardens (not the same one as yesterday, mind you, since the prince had managed to find him so easily), decided in face of the sweetly scented breeze, the beautiful scenery and the clear blue sky that he had never seen a more perfect sunrise in all his life.

It didn't surprise him, of course. Rivendell itself was as close to perfect as things got in this part of Arda, and everything looked and felt different and just the slightest bit unreal, at least to him. He supposed that the inhabitant of the Last Homely House didn't even notice it anymore, but to him the beauty and peace of the village felt almost like sinking into a hot bath at the end of a particularly cold, windy day.

The ranger shook his head. He might be wrong about it, of course. Lord Elrond was an elf – well, half-elf really – and was therefore by nature otherworldly, but he, like any other _dúnadan_, knew quite a lot about him. The brother of their progenitor, Elros Tar-Minyatur, had seen enough war and death and destruction for several lifetimes, and so had most of the older inhabitants of Rivendell. Of course, in this case 'older' meant anyone born before the end of the Second Age. To create such a refuge you probably had to have experienced all the worst the world had to offer, and Haldar had the very distinct feeling that not a day went by that the Lord of Rivendell did not remember what he had survived, what he had gained – and what he had lost.

At least in this last regard they were very similar, the dark-haired man thought almost bitterly. Only here in Rivendell, where he was completely and utterly safe and protected and there was absolutely no reason for him to sleep with one eye open, had he had time to rest and simply stop – and to really think about what had happened to his brother. He hadn't slept much tonight; he had been in too much turmoil to be able to truly find rest, and if not for Prince Legolas and the sons of Lord Elrond, he might even have come down and spent the night in the gardens.

It wasn't that they hindered him in any way to do just as he pleased. They were nothing but courteous to him – maybe even a little too much so. But they also tended to stare at him in a way that made him decidedly uncomfortable, and he had faced down orcs, wargs, wolves and even a troll or two. He was only 47 years old – which meant that sometimes he still was considered to be 'too young' by his fellow dúnedain –, but he had seen more than his fair share of dangerous beings that had wanted to tear him into shreds and eat him afterwards, mostly even without cooking him beforehand.

But Prince Legolas and Lord Elrond's twin sons – they were something else entirely. He had spent at least three or four hours in the Hall of Fire – more than enough time to show his good will to Lord Elrond – and they hadn't let him out of their sight once. Well, maybe that one time he had accompanied Meneldir to find some more of one of Lord Elrond's better wines, but even then one of the twins – he thought it had been the older one, but there was no way to be sure – had followed them. They weren't even speaking to him or looking overly disapproving – they just _stared_. It was downright frightening

He understood that they were only looking out for their adopted brother and friend – he really did understand! –, but he was beginning to feel slightly offended by their apparent insinuation that he meant … Estel … harm. All right then, he amended a second later, he was feeling more than just slightly offended. He was feeling downright insulted.

He would never harm the boy. Valar, of course he wouldn't harm the boy! He had been sent here to make sure that no one else did, either, and if he had his way, Lord Elrond would take him and get him someplace safe and nigh impenetrable, like the centre of Lothlórien or perhaps one of Mirkwood's dungeons. The Heirs of Isildur had always been hunted by the Dark One, but to throw the current one into this … situation would be nothing but foolishness.

And even though at the age of twenty-three you were considered an adult by the Dúnedain, you were still very, very young. The boy was barely more than a child, that no amount of horrible experiences that he seemed to be having constantly could erase.

Haldar smiled grimly. His brother would have been rolling on the ground laughing by now – he, his baby brother, who was himself only 47, was calling someone young and inexperienced. Still, he decided almost petulantly. Between 23 and 47 there was a world of difference, especially in the life of a ranger.

The bright sunlight that had been bathing his face was suddenly shielded by something, and the ranger returned to the present with a start. A tall figure stood in front of him, and for a second Haldar could not see who it was, his eyes unaccustomed to the sudden comparative darkness. Bright spot dancing in front of his eyes, he decided darkly that this never would have happened to him out in the wild – and it also wouldn't have happened to him if he hadn't been daydreaming.

No wonder the prince and Lord Elrond's sons were staring at him like that. He was proving to be more a danger to himself and others than an asset.

It took his eyes a few moments to adjust, but in the end they did and he could see that the figure in front of him was dressed in simple breeches, boots and a light shirt. The clothes were well-made and the grey shirt was decorated with an abstract pattern that he had seen the elf lord's twin sons wear as well, and while Haldar's eyes travelled up the other's chest to meet his eyes, he gave an inward sigh of relief. At least this couldn't be the prince, then, back for another little 'chat'.

And no, it wasn't the prince. It was Rivendell's only human inhabitant, who was standing in front of him and looking down on him with large, serious grey eyes.

For a second, Haldar froze. Then, with a speed and agility that was a credit to his people and his training, the older man stood up, facing the young man standing in front of him. Even though he was considered to be quite tall, even for one of the Dúnedain, Lord Elrond's adopted son surpassed him by at least two inches, and Haldar found himself in the unusual position of having to look up at somebody. The boy looked less drawn and pale than yesterday, even though there were still dark, bruise-like circles under his eyes, and his hair was falling onto his shoulders in unruly waves.

Haldar couldn't help but stare at the younger man while they stood silently face-to-face. If you knew that this was Arathorn's son, it was really quite impossible not to see it. The resemblance was there sure enough, even though there was enough of his mother in the boy as well. Even for him who had seen Arathorn's wife only a few times (and had gazed at her beauty with an open-mouthed adoration that must have looked quite silly now that he thought about it), it was clear who the other's mother had been, for he had the Lady Gilraen's eyes and mouth.

The older ranger inwardly shook his head. He had seen the boy once before, when his elven brothers and he had hunted with the Rangers; it must have been … what … almost four or five years now? Back then he hadn't paid the boy much attention – none of the other rangers had –, for they had "known" who he was: An orphan Lord Elrond had taken in after his parents' deaths out of the kindness of his heart, and nothing more.

What a blind fool he had been.

The younger man didn't blink under the close scrutiny or averted his eyes, apparently more than used to such things. Of course he was used to it, Haldar told himself sharply. He had grown up amongst elves – one either got used to being stared at by beings both wiser and far, far older than oneself or one went mad.

Aragorn resolved the situation by giving the older ranger his best, most innocent smile as he dipped his head.  
"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I had hoped to speak with you for a moment, Haldar, son of Baranor, if you don't mind."

Haldar gave him a look that was almost disbelieving. Who else would the boy be?

"Of course," the older ranger still replied and nodded. "Please, sit down, my lord."

Somebody who wasn't a ranger and whose life therefore didn't necessarily depend on always keeping an eye on his surroundings would most probably not have noticed the way Aragorn's shoulder stiffened slightly at the manner of address, but Haldar did. He did not comment on it, though, and merely quietly sat down on the other side of the bench, the cold, grey length of the stone lying between them like an unmarked border.

It was Aragorn who interrupted the silence for the second time.  
"First, I would like to apologise for not greeting you properly yesterday." He gave the man a slight grin. "I fear I did not even see you."

"Do not worry about it." Haldar shook his head quickly. "You were exhausted; anybody could have seen it."

"Yes, I was," Aragorn admitted. "Still, that is no excuse. My … Lord Elrond would have my head if he heard about my discourtesy."

"I will not tell him if you do not, my lord."

A smile once again spread over the younger man's face, and Haldar decided in an instant that the boy had inherited more than just his eyes and mouth from his beautiful, gentle mother.

"A good thing it is, too," Aragorn told him. "He places the highest importance on courtesy, respect and proper conduct."

"Commendable," Haldar commented. "He sounds quite a bit like my father in that respect. I remember him lecturing my brother and me more than once about the importance of said virtues."

"Fathers do such things."

It was silent for a second or two before Aragorn raised his head again. This was ridiculous, the young ranger told himself firmly. Haldar was a dúnadan, one of his own people. Why would he be nervous about talking to him?

"I know you," he finally said, giving Haldar an appraising look that the other man found rather hard to bear. "I saw you one of the times my brothers took me hunting. I was eighteen or nineteen, I believe."

"I remember." The older man looked at him steadily. "It was in one of the temporary camps, close to the South Downs." He paused for a second. "I … I feel that I have to apologise, my lord. I did not know who you were. I feel that I should have."

"That would have defied the whole purpose, wouldn't it?" Aragorn asked him with a smile. "Do not worry about it. I did not know either."

Haldar nodded his head curtly, and Aragorn decided in a split second that this was one of the most uncomfortable conversations he'd ever had, and that included that one time when he had been thirteen and his father had thought it necessary to explain to him 'where the elflings came from'. The man shuddered inwardly. That little talk had been just as awkward and certainly more embarrassing.

Besides, he had long since known 'where the elflings came from', and he had never once thought a stork had been involved in any way.

Deciding that this conversation wouldn't go anywhere if he didn't open his mouth and told the other ranger why he had sought him out (at least not until Haldar stopped staring at him as if he was a character that had just stepped out of one of the old sagas), he set his mouth into a firm line and continued with a persistent bluntness he had learned from Glorfindel. _Offence is always better than defence, young one._

"I have talked with Lord Elrond. He told me why you are here." Aragorn bowed his head briefly. "Please accept my condolences for your brother's disappearance. I know what it feels like to lose someone you had sworn to protect at all cost."

"Thank you, my lord."

Haldar only nodded and smiled thinly, but his expression was not unkind. There were those amongst the leaders of the Dúnedain that thought that Arathorn's son should have grown up amongst his own people and not hidden safely away in Imladris. They all knew, however, that the boy would most likely not even have reached his tenth year after the Enemy had gone to such great lengths to eliminate his father and mother, so it was somewhat of a moot point. Haldar did not think so, even though he knew that his captain did. Aragorn might have grown up in Imladris in safety and comfort, but he most certainly was no spoiled, pampered boy who didn't know anything about the real world. There was a sadness in his eyes that shouldn't have been visible in the eyes of one so young, and somehow it made him look even more elven.

His captain would surely love that, now wouldn't he?

The object of his scrutiny leaned back and gave him that long look Haldar was already getting used to, grey eyes sharp and knowing.

"Is it the eyes or the way I speak?" he asked, his voice almost, but not quite, mocking. "I would say the eyes, though."

Haldar actually gaped. He wouldn't have admitted it to anybody, of course, since he was usually quite an eloquent person, but a boy half his age had just rendered him speechless.

"I … my lord, I…" he finally managed to bring out, deciding that this one was far too much like his elven friends. His eyes didn't only look too elven, they also saw far too much.

"It is all right, Haldar, do not worry," Aragorn said, and he really didn't look as if he was in any way displeased. A little irked, maybe, but not seriously displeased. "I have heard many times that I look and speak too elvish, and maybe those who claim that are even right." He smiled grimly. "I wouldn't really know."

Haldar did know what the younger man meant, and, since he was an honest man, he couldn't really say that he disagreed. There was something about the boy that was just … not entirely human, even though it wouldn't be completely correct to say that it was entirely elvish. And even though his Common was perfect and he spoke it as if he had been born to it – which he had been –, there was something that just sounded the tiniest bit strange, if one had good ears and listened very closely. It wasn't an accent; it was more the way he spoke, the rhythm of his sentences.

"It doesn't matter," Aragorn went on with a nonchalant wave of his hand that didn't look that nonchalant at all and quite clearly said that it did matter somehow. "I have come here to ask you something. As I said, I talked to Lord Elrond this morning, and he told me why you had come. Or rather," he paused, a small twist of displeasure around his mouth, "some of it. He told me about the disappearances and that you had hoped that the warriors of Rivendell had noticed something."

"That is true, my lord," Haldar said, nodding his head. He had a vague feeling where this was leading, and, respect he had for Lord Elrond or not, he suddenly felt the very vivid urge to hit the half-elf. Or at least try to hit him. "The captains agreed that we needed to seek out every kind of aid available to us. The vigilance and perceptiveness of the Elves of Rivendell is well known, and if there had been any hostile activity to the north of the Angle, we were sure that something would have been noticed."

"Yes," the younger man mumbled thoughtfully. "Yes, one would think so. Lord Glorfindel has gathered all his captains and senior commanding officers so the council can question them. You will be there as well, I take it?"

"Yes, my lord." Haldar nodded his head, still looking faintly suspicious. This couldn't be all of it, now could it? "The meeting is at the ninth hour."

"I see. I wish you luck, then."

"You do not think anything of importance will be revealed?"

Aragorn smiled at him, faint regret in his eyes.  
"If I am honest – no. If a secret is to be kept, the Elves can keep it until the last person to know it has died and his bones have crumbled into dust, and they would die to protect it from anyone, including the Dark One himself. But…" He interrupted himself and smiled. "But they can also be very curious and talkative. If someone had noticed something that he would have thought merely curious, he would have told someone about it, and that someone would have told someone else and in a matter of hours the whole of Rivendell would have known. If someone had seen something he would have thought suspicious, he would have reported it to his commanding officer or would have gone directly to Lord Glorfindel or Lord Elrond himself. So, no, I do not have a lot of hope that something might be discovered that might aid you."

Haldar returned the smile.  
"That is what I thought as well, and so, I think, did the majority of the captains." _His _captain certainly had thought so. "But thank you for your honesty, my lord. The Firstborn can be the slightest bit … elusive … if they want to be." He grimaced. "And persistent."

The younger ranger grinned at him, something that made him look far younger than he already did.  
"Who found you? My brothers or Legolas?

Not really seeing how any of this could be amusing, Haldar still answered.  
"The prince."

Aragorn's grin widened, something that Haldar had thought downright impossible.

"My condolences, then. He can be both elusive and persistent – not to mention vexing." Haldar didn't say anything, but it was clear that he was just too polite to do so. "I hope he didn't pressure you too much," he went on, clearly speaking from his own experience. "Sometimes, it is most obvious who his father is."

Haldar stared at the younger man, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead in a way that would have astonished even Elrond if he could have seen it. 'Sometimes'? From what he had heard about the Elvenking, Prince Legolas was _exactly _like his father.

"No, do not worry, my lord," he lied in a sufficiently convincing manner. "We had a most enjoyable conversation."

Aragorn didn't look as if he believed a single word the other man had said.  
"I am sure you did," he said in a tone of voice he would have used when speaking to a pathological liar. "But I am also sure you didn't tell him anything interesting, least of all anything he wanted to hear from you, otherwise he wouldn't have looked so irritated when I spoke with him yesterday evening."

For some strange reason, Haldar was intensely happy to hear that his behaviour had irritated the blond prince.  
"What could I have told him, my lord?" he asked in mock innocence. Lord Elrond be damned for pushing him into this position!

Aragorn gave him a long, penetrating look that reminded Haldar that the boy was also Arathorn's son. Their late chieftain had always had that gift of only having to give you a single look to convey his disbelief or displeasure. Haldar had been quite young when Arathorn had died, but he had been old enough so that he had found himself on the wrong side of one of his glares once or twice.

"I understand that you spoke with Lord Elrond in confidence," he younger man began. "I also understand that you were sent here to speak with Lord Elrond, not with me. But I know my father, maybe as well as any human can know an elf, and I know when he isn't telling me everything. In fact, he told me nothing."

Haldar remained silent. Lord Elrond hadn't expressly told him not to talk with his foster son about his suspicions, but, well, he hadn't told him to do it either. Lord Elrond was not his superior and, strictly speaking, he didn't owe him his allegiance while the young man in front of him was his chieftain, but … well. He most certainly was more afraid of Lord Elrond than he was of the son of Arathorn, even though that might change with time.

Aragorn gave him a look that was slightly long-suffering but continued.

"I do not doubt that you – and Lord Elrond – spoke the truth. Something terrible is happening in the Angle and beyond, something that might place all of the Dúnedain of the North in danger. But informing him about it is not the sole reason you are here, Haldar. I know that my father – like my brothers and my friends – only wishes to protect me, but I am twenty-three years old. That is nothing, not even a blink of an eye, for an elf, I am aware of that, but among our people, I am an adult. A young one, maybe," he smiled and shook his head slightly, "but an adult nonetheless. There is another reason for your presence here, and neither my brothers nor my father will tell me. I ask of you now, what is it?"

Haldar forced himself to look away from those searching grey eyes and took a deep breath. He hadn't really stood a chance, he decided almost wryly. Trying to keep secrets from someone with Lady Gilraen's sympathetic eyes who had also been raised by the Elves – Eru Ilúvatar, what had he been _thinking_?

"We are not sure, my lord," he finally admitted. "It is a suspicion born of fear as much as reason."

Aragorn gave him a wry smile that was belied by the steely glint in his eyes.  
"Those are the most interesting suspicions, aren't they? Tell me."

Haldar briefly closed his eyes and accepted defeat as gracefully as possible.  
"We think that these disappearances are not as random as they look. Lord Elrond told you, I assume, in what shape the bodies of those that we found were?" Aragorn nodded curtly, prompting him to continue. "Then you know what I am talking about, my lord. We think that the one – or the ones – behind all this might be looking for information, information he can only get through torment and agony. Information about something – or someone."

Without saying a word, Aragorn sat back slowly, his face completely expressionless. His eyes that had been fixed on Haldar slowly lost focus as they wandered over their surroundings until they finally fixed on the waterfalls in the distance. Haldar was certain that the younger man didn't even see them. For long seconds, it was silent as Aragorn stared straight ahead, seemingly as oblivious to his surroundings as humanly possible.

"I see," he finally said calmly, still not looking at the older man. "That actually explains quite a lot."

Somehow Haldar doubted that the younger man really did.  
"If we are right, my lord, you must be extremely careful. I pray to the One that I am wrong, that our assumptions are baseless and that we have jumped to conclusions, but I do not believe so."

"Yes," Aragorn mumbled. He probably hadn't really heard what the other man had said. "It would be something the Lord of Mordor would do, wouldn't it?"

"Given the chance, he would do things far worse," Haldar told him evenly. The prince and Lord Elrond's sons would probably have his head for this, but he would not lie to his chieftain. "If he should find you…"

"I know," Aragorn interrupted him, the most mirthless smile on his face that Haldar had ever seen. "I would die, or, Eru forbid, be taken to Mordor."

It was silent for long seconds. There really wasn't anything to say, and Haldar couldn't think of anything he would have to add. The boy in front of him knew well what should befall him should the Dark Lord's agents ever find him; that lesson he had obviously been taught since he had been told of his heritage.

Finally Aragorn shook his head as if coming out of a trance and stood to his feet with a slow motion that looked impossibly weary for one so young.

"I will keep you no longer, then. Your meeting will start soon. Forgive me for not accompanying you, but you have given me a lot to think about. I trust you will find your way?"

"Yes, of course," Haldar answered automatically, but when the younger ranger turned away from him, he could see his eyes clearly, and behind the shock and fear there was something else, something he had seen too many times in the past. "I know what you want to do, my lord. I would strongly advise against it."

The younger man froze and slowly turned back around, an innocent expression on his face that did not look genuine at all.  
"Oh? And how so?"

"Because I am a dúnadan like you, and I would do the same."

Aragorn tried to smile at him, but it was a wobbly, half-hearted attempt that quickly disappeared again.  
"Then you also understand why I have to do it."

"Yes." Haldar bowed his head. "That I do. But it is still a most foolish idea."

Aragorn raised his eyes in teasing disbelief that looked about as genuine as his earlier smile.  
"A second ago you said that you would do the same, Haldar."

"I would, my lord," the older man admitted seriously. "We have always been called reckless and stubborn, my older brother and I, and it is something both he and I would do." He raised his head and looked straight at the younger ranger. "My brother is dead."

Aragorn didn't say anything and only looked at him steadily, absolutely nothing on his face that would have given away his thoughts or feelings. In the end, he only gave Haldar a nod and turned around, his eyes resting a second longer than necessary on the ranger's star-shaped brooch that secured his cloak at his throat. There was something in his eyes then, a sudden spark of startled recognition that Haldar couldn't understand, but a second later it was gone as the younger man turned away from him fully.

The boy straightened his back and took a deep breath before he began to make his way down the path into the direction of the main house, and all Haldar could do was stare at his rigidly set shoulders until the younger man rounded a bend and passed out of sight.  
**  
** **  
** **  
**   
****"All right," Elladan said, letting his eyes wander over the faces of his companions in the way a general would have surveyed his troops, "I believe we all know why we are here."

Elrohir and Legolas nodded, while Celylith, who was sitting a bit apart from them, shot him a deeply vexed look.  
"To make sure that I don't have any kind of social life worth mentioning?"

Legolas rolled his eyes at him.  
"That painter doesn't even _like _you, Celylith."

"Yes, she does," the other wood-elf protested. "I have had several interesting conversations with her. And besides, it's none of your business. My lord."

"Just think about what your father would say if you returned to Mirkwood betrothed to a Noldo."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Elrohir wanted to know, doing his best to look outraged. He was actually doing quite a good job. "Just what is wrong with marrying a Noldo?"

"Oh, nothing." Legolas shrugged and raised his hand innocently. "Nothing at all."

The twins exchanged a dark look before they turned simultaneously to glare at Legolas. The _look _that would have made the oldest and most experienced elf lord avert his eyes had infuriatingly little effect on the son of Thranduil.

"And this is how you thank us for telling you what _ada _told us?" Elladan asked in a hurt tone of voice. "We could have left you in the dark, you know. We all know that Haldar wouldn't have told you anything."

"Yes, he would." Legolas shook his head stubbornly. "I've only had one conversation with him. He would have given in, sooner or later."

"Later rather than sooner," Elrohir snorted.

"We can continue this conversation once you've tried to make that man tell you something he doesn't wish to divulge," the elven prince told him testily. "I'd like to see you try before you judge me."

"Oh, we wouldn't," the younger twin snickered. "We know better than to try and make a ranger tell us something he or she doesn't wish to discuss. The Dúnedain could rival a mule in stubbornness. No, _we _have done the intelligent and logical thing. We asked _ada_."

"You shouldn't worry, though," his twin brother chimed in. "We all know that Silvan Elves aren't exactly known for doing the intelligent thing. Or the logical one, mind you."

Legolas gave them the haughtiest look he could manage right now (which was already haughty enough that it would have made his father at least faintly proud) and turned to Celylith, completely ignoring the twins.

"You see, my friend? This is why they always give us that speech about not fraternising with the Noldor."

"Yes, my lord." Celylith nodded obediently. "It is most obvious."

"Funny." Elrohir grinned at him in a way that advised caution. "Very funny, _mellon nín_."

"Thank you." Legolas returned the smile in kind. "I thought so, too."

"Could we please get back to the topic at hand?" Elladan asked, the slightest bit of irritation creeping into his voice.

Celylith turned around slowly and dramatically and speared the older twin with a look that should rightly have set his hair on fire.  
"Are you honestly trying to tell me that you have dragged me here…"

"Well, technically speaking, Legolas dragged you."

"…to discuss the best way of annoying that ranger?" the silver-haired elf asked, ignoring Elrohir's words. "Because you cannot be serious."

"That is not what I have been proposing!" Elladan protested.

"You said, and I quote, 'Let us keep an eye on him'," Celylith retorted. It was obvious that he was more than a little annoyed. "Remind me again how that is going to help Aragorn?"

"He didn't say it like that, Celylith," Legolas interrupted him. "Stop exaggerating. And Elladan, stop taking it personal."

"What we wanted to propose," Elrohir hurried to intervene, ever the mediator, "is that we try and find out more details about this whole … mess. And since the only one who seems to know anything is Haldar…"

Legolas snorted when the twin trailed off meaningfully.  
"Have you not been listening to yourself, Elrohir? That ranger will not tell us anything or budge an inch until one of four things happens: One, he receives an order from his captains, two, your father intimidated him into a near-catatonic state, three, Eru himself appears and orders him to co-operate, or four, you start ripping out his fingernails." He frowned. "And I don't even think that Number Four would work exceedingly well."

"I am not suggesting that we slam him into a wall and rip out his fingernails!" Elrohir protested indignantly. "I don't wish to cause a diplomatic incident my father would never let me hear the end of, let alone Estel!"

"But it would be tempting," Elladan commented from the side.

"Valar, yes, that it would be," his brother admitted. "But _ada _did not give us any details, so we have no other choice but to try and induce Haldar to share with us what he knows."

Celylith looked at the twin with wide eyes. He was clearly sharing his prince's scepticism.  
"I know his type, Elrohir. I have to admit that he is the first ranger except Estel that I have ever truly met – and by that I mean the first one I have actually spoken to –, but I do not have to know him any better to know that he would rather die than betray the confidence of those he has sworn to protect or those he considers his allies. He will speak with your father and probably with Aragorn, but not with us."

"Besides, why do you think there is anything your father hasn't told you?" Legolas wanted to know. "I would think the Rangers don't know anything themselves. That is why they sent him here, after all – to see if you knew anything that could help them."

"I believe that they don't know anything specific, yes," Elrohir said, nodding his head. "If they did, they would have dealt with it a long time ago and would merely have sent a messenger to inform us of the deed – as a sign of courtesy. But there must be something more we can do except sit here all day! Do you realise what all this might mean?"

Legolas' face grew dark as he nodded.  
"Of course I do."

"The Dark Lord might be looking for Isildur's Heir," Elladan continued his brother's sentence as if the elven prince hadn't even spoken. "Sauron might be searching for our little brother. Do I have to explain to you in detail what will happen to Estel if he is found?"

"No, you do not," Legolas told him coldly. "We are from Mirkwood, Elladan. We know the treachery and cruelty of the Master of Dol Guldur, as well as you do or better."

Elladan looked at him for a second or two before he, too, nodded.  
"You are right, my friend, forgive me. Of course you know."

"My point, if you would allow me to make it, is that they don't know anything, we know don't anything, and annoying Haldar isn't really going to help Aragorn," Legolas continued, holding up a hand when Elrohir took a deep breath to protest. "I don't like it any more than you do, Elrohir, believe me, and I don't like it at all that that man just won't talk to us. But that is the way things are, and there is nothing we can do."

"When will the meeting be over?" Celylith chimed in. "This afternoon?"

"Yes." Elrohir nodded his head. "Sometime around the sixth or seventh hour, I think. Glorfindel had his captains spread the word that anybody who noticed anything unusual should come forward, and they are talking to all the captains and commanders as we speak. It is possible that someone might remember something of importance in the next few days, but there won't be any more meetings after tonight."

"Why not?" Celylith asked simply.

"Because no one knows anything," Elladan answered wearily. "I spoke to _ada _and Glorfindel, and Elvynd, Isál, Meneldir, Thalar and Dólion and any other commander or captain I could get my hands on. No one knows anything, there are no stories or rumours or strange reports. There is absolutely no way that anything like this is happening close to Rivendell and we don't know about it."

"And yet it is happening." Legolas leaned back into his chair and sighed in a mixture of annoyance and weariness. "Forgive me for saying so, Elladan, but the Angle isn't all that far away."

Elladan shot him a _look _that would have cracked solid stone.  
"Whoever is behind this is taking great care not to encroach on our lands, then. None of the long-range patrols have heard anything of interest either, so it can only mean that they keep closer to the West or the South of the Angle."

"Which would mean that they're clever," Celylith remarked wryly.

"And that, of course, makes them so much more dangerous," Elrohir agreed with a small nod. "If they keep themselves hidden somewhere in Eregion or the South Downs, or even the Trollshaws, there is a good chance that they won't be noticed."

"The Trollshaws?" Legolas asked, raising an eyebrow. "That's practically at your front door! I know that your warriors cannot be everywhere, but surely you would have noticed something like this if it was happening right under your noses!"

When Legolas was worried about something, he really wasn't very diplomatic. Elrohir noticed that as well and gave the elven prince a _look _that would have made his father proud and King Thranduil very envious.

"Our warriors watch the Trollshaws," the younger twin told his friend almost coldly. "We have no guard posts that far out, but we would most likely have noticed something – but then again, maybe we wouldn't have. Do you know what we are looking for, Legolas? Who is behind this? A man? A servant of the Dark One? A dwarf, a hobbit, an orc, a wizard who's having a particularly bad day…?"

"A dwarf would be annoying," Elladan mused, frowning absent-mindedly. "I doubt that it would be a wizard – the only one who is probably somewhere close-by is Gandalf, and this just isn't his style. And a hobbit would be downright embarrassing."

"The Trollshaws are too far away from where the rangers disappeared, anyway," Elrohir went on. "If it had been happening in the north of the Angle, I would have thought it possible but unlikely. But from what _ada_ told us, most of the disappearances happened in the South, close to the convergence of the rivers or the South Downs. A basis of operations so far north would be ineffective and placed strategically unwise."

"Do you think that whoever is behind this is thinking in such terms?" Legolas asked. "It might be a horde of orcs or some rampant trolls that are somewhat more intelligent than the rest of their brood."

"Have you ever, in all your years, seen an orc or troll that could plan and execute something like this without being caught almost instantly?" Elladan retorted rhetorically. "I know I haven't."

There wasn't a lot to say to that. Orcs and trolls generally didn't make very good strategists.

"You are right," the elven prince admitted almost reluctantly. "So, the Trollshaws are out. Where else can somebody hide? The foothills of the Misty Mountains? The South Downs? I doubt that they would camp out in the open."

"Probably not," Elrohir said with a wry smile. "The terrain south of the Shire is generally not very wooded. They would need someplace to hide, something like a thick forest or hills. There is this kind of terrain in the Angle or close to it, but it is not very common."

"The South Downs or the area of the _Hithaeglir_ would seem most likely then, wouldn't they?" Legolas asked. The twins nodded in agreement, and he turned to Celylith, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. "What about you, _mellon nín_? What do you think?"

Celylith raised his head quickly, clearly having been interrupted in his musings, and gave his prince a weak smile that sent a shiver down the other elf's back. He had seen that expression on Celylith's face a few times before, and none of them he remembered as pleasant or enjoyable.

"With all due respect, my lord, I think that none of this matters."

Celylith was, for the first time in his life, treated to the sight of having rendered both twin sons of Elrond and his prince completely speechless.

"Pardon me?" Legolas finally asked.

"It doesn't matter," Celylith repeated, meeting his prince's eyes. "We can sit here till the sun goes down and theorise about where these people – if they are people, that is – might be hiding. We have no information at all, so it won't help us to speculate. What I find more interesting is another question." He turned to Elladan. "The Dúnedain are a proud people, are they not? And they would not come to ask for your aid unless they had no other choice?"

"That is correct." The older twin nodded. He was looking at the silver-haired elf cautiously, as if he wasn't trusting where this was going.

"Then I find it hard to believe that they would have come here before turning the Angle – and its surroundings – upside down," Celylith told them. "They will have searched everything, will have used every contact and asked every ally they have, and they have come up with nothing. _Nothing_. I find the implications of that far more distressing than the question of where the guilty ones are hiding."

"What is it you are saying, Celylith?" Elrohir asked, narrowing his eyes at the wood-elf. "That there is some sort of dark magic involved?"

"I am not implying anything of the like," the other elf replied calmly. "All I am saying is that, if the Rangers could not find any trace of whoever is killing their people, they are most likely very well-hidden – or of a kind that is not easily found."

It was silent for several moments before Elladan opened his mouth to speak.  
"What mortal creature could hide itself so well that not even the Rangers can find it?"

"I do not know if I want to know the answer to that, _gwanur_ _nín_," his younger brother said glumly. "I really think I don't want to know it."

The twins exchanged a quick look before they turned back to the two wood-elves, their faces very serious all of the sudden.

"I think that, as their kin, we have a certain obligation to find out what is going on," Elladan said coolly. "If we leave tomorrow, we should be back in…"

"…two or three weeks at the very latest," Elrohir finished the sentence, nodding. "We could even take a few warriors with us, just to reassure _ada_."

"Oh yes." Celylith nodded as well, in a very fake manner. "I am sure that would make Haldar very happy, not to mention his captain."

"They wanted our help, now they're getting it," the older twin said with finality. "They are our kin and we owe them at least that much, even if they're too proud to ask. We have ridden with them many times in the past, and many of those living in the camps of the Rangers are our friends. And not only that, all of us could be threatened by this new menace. Even if Haldar's suspicions prove groundless, this could have dire consequences for Imladris if a stop isn't put to it."

"It should be reasonably safe here until we can get back," Elrohir continued. "Glorfindel has doubled the guards and has sworn that not even a mouse will get into Imladris without him knowing. Estel should be safe if he doesn't manage to get himself killed in some highly idiotic way here at home."

A low snort interrupted him, and the three of them turned toward the source of the noise which turned out to be the Prince of Mirkwood, who was sitting back in his chair with a most curious expression on his face. It looked like a strange mixture of sadness, faint amusement and weariness.

"What?" Elrohir asked, arching an eyebrow in annoyance. For a moment, he looked remarkably like his father. "Is there something wrong, my friend?"

Legolas smiled at him unhappily.  
"No, Elrohir, nothing." 

"But?"

"But do you really think you are the first ones to reach that decision?"  
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****The scratching sound of more than three dozen chair legs scraping over the stone floor could be heard, grating on Elrond's nerves almost more than the past few hours had. Actually, 'the past few hours' was quite a nice term for the whole – entire – day. Even for him – who was used to hours-long council meeting and pointless debates – it had been hard to bear, and he was sure that more than one elf in this room had been brought close to the point of snapping.

In his case, he had been about a fifth of an inch away from it.

Elrond leaned back in his high-backed chair and allowed himself to close his eyes for a second or two while his captains and the advisors filed out of the council chambers. It had been a very long day indeed, but not so much because everybody had been unreasonable and uncooperative but rather because their entire situation could be summer up with exactly four words: No one knew anything.

It didn't really surprise him. If one of his warriors had really known anything, he would have expected to be informed a lot earlier anyway. Still, it had been painful to watch how the faint hope on Haldar's face dimmed more and more as the hours grew longer and the day passed. He was sure that the ranger hadn't really thought that they could help him significantly, but it was clear that he had still hoped.

The half-elf sighed and opened his eyes again. Hope was a marvellous thing, and in the quiet hours of the night, he had often wondered how such a thing could be both wonderful and terrible at the same time.

Over at the other end of the long table, Haldar was slowly rising to his feet, looking slightly dazed. Elrond didn't know what had put that particular expression on the ranger's face, the duration of the meeting or its outcome, but he could very well understand it. He, too, had hoped that Glorfindel had been wrong and that one of the captains would remember hearing or seeing something.

The ranger pushed back his chair and headed for the door, and Elrond decided quickly to speak with him later. Right now the man needed time to rest for a while and come to terms with his dashed hopes and expectations. The ranger's rigid back disappeared from view, unhappiness and disappointment radiating off him in almost tangible waves, and soon the only other person left in the room was Glorfindel, who was gathering his reports and lists and scraps of parchment and was slowly coming towards him. The golden-haired elf looked at least as drained as Elrond felt.

The older elf lord deposited his burden on the desktop and let himself fall into the chair to the right of the half-elf, sighing in exhaustion. He leaned back with an unhappy smile, and Elrond watched two small pieces of parchment float towards the floor that had come loose from the stack. They touched the stone tiles at almost exactly the same time, and Elrond wondered dimly what exactly the chances were of something like that happening.

"I hate being right," Glorfindel declared with feeling. Elrond knew from long experience that that was in fact not entirely correct. If there was an elf under this sun who liked being right almost as much as King Thranduil and Erestor, it was Glorfindel.

"Everybody hates you being right," Elrond replied, dredging up the most genuine smile he could muster after a meeting that had lasted almost ten hours.

"You have been talking with Erestor again," Glorfindel accused him amiably. "Because he most certainly does hate it when I am right. And while I have nothing but respect and admiration for my esteemed colleague, this one topic is one on which we disagree." He paused for a moment and rubbed his forehead, his good mood evaporating as his eyes wandered over the empty seats arranged around the long table. "I am sorry, Elrond. I had hoped someone would know something."

"So had I, my friend." Elrond nodded. "Elbereth, so had I. But what is, is. We did what we could."

"I still cannot believe that something like this is going on and we haven't heard about it," Glorfindel said, his voice tight and displeased. The golden-haired elf took the oath he had sworn all those long ages ago very seriously, and he did not take what he considered to be failure lightly. "Even if it is going on to the south of the Angle, or somewhere in Eregion or even in southern Minhiriath! It is just not … right."

"Perhaps we should have a word with Erestor," Elrond suggested. Glorfindel couldn't figure out if his friend was being serious or not. "His spy ring should have warned us long before now. If I didn't know any better, I would say that the cooks are becoming lazy and complacent."

"To miss something like this, they must have." Glorfindel nodded, a small smile on his face. "I know that they have been very busy lately with cooking all the preserves, but that is not excuse for mistakes such as this one!"

Elrond smiled at him, a smile that looked already far more genuine.  
"They do have their duties, _mellon nín_. You must understand that being both a spy and a cook can be stressful."

"So it would seem." Glorfindel smiled back at him before he turned serious once more. "Did you tell him, then?"

"Did I tell whom what?" Elrond asked. The innocent question was the only proof that Glorfindel needed that his friend knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Please, my lord," Glorfindel said, narrowing his eyes. "You know what I mean. Did you tell Estel about Haldar's suspicions?"

Elrond didn't answer immediately, his eyes fixing on the far wall. Glorfindel sighed and shook his head, idly re-stacking his papers.

"You should tell him, Elrond. He has a right to know – it is his life we are talking about, after all. Besides: You know, the council knows, and, worse, the twins know. They will tell him eventually."

"Oh, I don't think so." The half-elf shook his head. "They fear too much for him to risk it."

"All right, then he will be told by someone else," the older elf said. "He is the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Haldar will tell him, should he ask."

"Why would he ask him?" Elrond raised an eyebrow in surprise, but there was more wishful thinking than conviction in his voice. "I told him the truth, after all. I told him that rangers are disappearing and that the Captains sent Haldar to ask for our help."

"Because, direct blood-ties or no direct blood-ties, he _is _your son," Glorfindel answered. "He knows when he is being misdirected or things are being withheld from him. He has been taught by you and Erestor, and he most certainly isn't stupid. He will know that there is something going on."

The dark-haired elf looked at him for a moment or two, narrowing his eyes, but then he bowed his head with a weary sigh.  
"I can be a fool sometimes, can't I?"

"No, not a fool," Glorfindel said gently. "You are a father. It is natural for you to worry about your children. In fact, I would be very afraid if you stopped trying to protect them."

"The only way to protect Estel is to lock him up somewhere and throw away the key." Elrond frowned. "And even then the walls would probably collapse on him or something like that." He paused for a second. "Do you think that he has already spoken to the dúnadan? I saw no clues today on Haldar's face that might indicate that he had."

"Haldar would give no clues," Glorfindel told him, the tiniest hint of annoyance on his face. "Aragorn is his chieftain and his lord, and therefore his first priority. He is loyal to him first and to all others second."

"As it should be," Elrond said almost fiercely.

"As it should be," the older elf echoed. A small noise caught his attention, and a slight smile spread over his face before he had even fully turned his head. "But yes, I think he has talked to him."

Elrond followed his friend's example and turned around, already knowing what he would see. True enough, it was his human son who stood at the entrance to the council chambers, leaning against one of the carved doorposts. The young man was still paler than he usually was at this time of year, but he didn't look nearly as bad as yesterday. Glorfindel stood up, unhurriedly picked up his stack of documents (blithely ignoring the two on the floor; he probably was happy about every single one he managed to lose somehow) and gave his friend a quick nod.

"I will be working on the inventory, then." He turned around to give Aragorn a quick look and shook his head, adding in a voice so soft that only Elrond would be able to hear him, "Good luck."

Elrond only narrowed his eyes at him in annoyance, but Glorfindel had already turned around and was swiftly walking towards the door. He lightly squeezed the young man's shoulder as a kind of wordless greeting on his way out and was gone, closing the double doors behind him that moved soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. The next time Elrond looked up, he was met with the calm grey eyes of his foster-son, who had sat down in the chair Glorfindel had vacated only seconds ago and was gazing seriously at him.

For a few moments, father and son only looked at each other before the young man opened his mouth to speak.  
"Why did you not tell me?"

Elrond exhaled slowly but did not look away. He knew that Aragorn would probably not see things like he did, but he stood by his decisions.  
"I wished only to protect you, Estel."

"How could this protect me, father?" Aragorn asked, his brows drawing together into a displeased line. "How can I choose well, how can I choose at all, if you deny me the knowledge I need to make decisions? And what about my people? The Rangers are being killed because of me; who is going to protect _them_?"

"You don't know that for sure." Elrond shook his head. "It is a suspicion, nothing more." He unconsciously mirrored his adopted son's facial expression and frowned. "Surely Haldar did not tell you that this was a proven fact, did he?"

"No." Aragorn quickly shook his head, readily coming to the fellow ranger's defence. "Of course not. His words were very cautious and diplomatic – but a lot franker than yours, _ada_."

"I was worried about you, Estel. I still am."

"I understand that," the man said, clearly forcing himself to be calm. "And I would lie if I said that I am not afraid, but how could you not tell me when other people – my people! – are dying because of me, are most likely even dying _for _me even though they don't even _know _me?"

"They are not dying because of you, Estel. We have no proof, no information, nothing."

"But we also have nothing that would disprove it!" the man exclaimed, narrowing his eyes. "It is something the Lord of Mordor would do, you have to admit that, _ada_."

Even though Elrond wasn't in the mood to admit anything, he was too honest an elf to refute his son's argument.  
"He would, that much I admit. He isn't called the Master of Treachery for nothing."

Aragorn only looked at him before letting his eyes wander over the empty chairs. He returned his attention to his father, a faint line between his brows.  
"You did not discover anything of interest, I take it?"

"No." It was yet another thing the half-elf hated to admit. "Nothing at all, just as we feared. We cannot aid Master Haldar in any way, I fear." Elrond looked at his human son and almost closed his eyes when he saw the determined expression on his face. "You wish to tell me something, do you not, _ion nín_?"

"Yes, _ada_." Aragorn nodded coolly. "Haldar is going to return to the Angle; most likely tomorrow or the day after tomorrow now that it has become clear that we cannot help him." The young ranger hesitated for a second and took a deep breath. "And I will go with him."

"No." The word hung in the air above them before Elrond had even realised he had uttered it.

"I am twenty-three years old," Aragorn said, obviously striving for calm. "I appreciate your concern, father, but I am old enough to decide such things for myself."

"I beg to differ." Elrond shook his head, his eyes dark. "Even among the Dúnedain, twenty-three isn't exactly a ripe old age. And besides, I am the one who has to patch you up time and again."

"Well," Aragorn said with a shrug, "accidents happen." He frowned. "Especially to us." He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on his adoptive father's. "I understand why you didn't tell me, _ada_. I might not agree with you, but I understand it. I know what will happen to me should Sauron managed to trap me. I know about Eärnur and the Disaster of the Gladden Fields and all the others. My education has been very thorough in this regard."

"No, you do not know!" Elrond said with more vehemence than he would have liked. "You heard about what happened, but you did not see it! You do not know what Sauron is capable of, Estel, and I pray to the Valar that you never will."

Aragorn did not even try to deny the validity of his father's statement.  
"Yes," he admitted. "You are right. I did not see it, because I am human. We do not live to reach six thousand; we have to be told about such things. But that doesn't matter, _ada_, and you know it. They are my people, and I cannot let them die for me."

"You are the Heir of Isildur, Aragorn," Elrond told him bluntly. "You are the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and the rightful King of Gondor and Arnor. Sooner or later, men _will _die for you – because of who you are, because of your titles – or because you asked them to."

"Maybe." Aragorn nodded and set his jaw. "But when that day comes, I don't want to feel like an impostor. How could I expect anybody to die for me – let alone ask them to! – if I just hide every time I could be in danger? How could I live with myself if I did that? I cannot stay in Imladris for the rest of my life, _ada_."

"No, you cannot," the elf agreed. "But to fulfil your duties as the Lord of the Dúnedain and to throw yourself into harm's way when there might be agents of the Dark One abroad looking for you – that are two entirely different things."

"No." Aragorn smiled sadly. "They are not. I am their chieftain, father. I can help them. I _must _help them. They are my people."

"How is getting yourself killed going to help anybody?" Elrond asked, trying hard to get his anxiety and growing dread under control.

"I am not planning on dying," the young ranger told his father firmly. "Thanks to all of our little … adventures that seem to ambush us ever since I've met Legolas, I have only been with the rangers once since being told of my ancestry, and even then I did not stay very long." He paused for a moment, clearly remembering that not-so-very-pleasant stay. "Except for the captains and very few other people, people still think of me as Estel or Strider, your foster-son and nothing more. I will be safe, _ada_."

"No, you won't be." Elrond shook his head. "Do I have to remind you of the fact that there is someone or something out there hunting rangers? Even if they don't know who you are…"

"I will be as safe as any other ranger, then," Aragorn corrected himself. "I have to go, _ada_. I am not doing this out of blind stubbornness or pride. I _know _I can help them."

Elrond was about to protest again, but there was something in the young ranger's eyes that made him change his mind.  
"Did you have another vision?"

"No." Aragorn shook his head quickly. His father only looked at him. "I am speaking the truth, _ada_. I really didn't. There were glimpses of … something … during the night, as I told you this morning, but nothing new or overly terrifying. I think I still had too much of Elrohir's potion in my system to … dream."

"What is it, then?" Elrond asked, leaning forward. "You recognised something, didn't you?" he went on, sudden understanding on his face. "Something you saw in the vision."

"Yes," the young man admitted quietly. "At least I think so."

"What?"

"Do you remember the star I told you about? The star that somehow didn't look like a 'real' star?" Aragorn asked so softly that Elrond could hardly understand it. "I saw it again today."

"The brooch." Elrond nodded, closing his eyes for a second. "I should have seen it sooner."

"So should I," Aragorn told him with a rueful smile. "It was there right in front of my eyes, and I never even thought about it."

"It happens, _ion nín_," the half-elf said gently. "It is hard to recognise the things you saw in a vision – especially if they are right in front of your eyes." He fell silent for a moment. "So you think that what you saw in your dreams, that the person that died, was one of the missing rangers?"

"It is possible," Aragorn agreed. "I am now certain that the visions are about what is happening in the Angle. And if I am right and it _was _the death of one of the rangers that I saw, who knows what I will see next? I am connected to what is happening, _ada_. I am connected to it in a way that I do not fully understand, granted, but I still am. If I 'see' something else tomorrow night, or the night after that, or the night after that – what good will it do if I am here, where I can change nothing and help no one? I do not know why I am having these visions, but I now know what they are about – and whom I can help if I can interpret them correctly and in time. I have to try and help them, _ada_. I don't know if I can, but I have to try."

Elrond looked at his human son for a long time without saying a word before he reached out and lightly touched his cheek.  
"There is nothing I can say to change your mind, is there?"

Aragorn shook his head and gave his elven father a small, sad smile.  
"Nothing, _ada_."

"Yes," Elrond said quietly, returning the smile in kind. "That is what I'd thought."

And even while Aragorn smiled at him and bowed his head, Elrond had the dreadful feeling that he had set something terrible in motion, something that might as well steal away from him one of the four people that mattered most to him in all of Arda.

And even worse, he had the feeling that there was nothing he could do to stop it, nothing at all.

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_dúnadan (pl.: dúnedain) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
ada - father (daddy)  
mellon nín - my friend  
Hithaeglir - the mountain range of the Misty Mountains  
gwanur nín - my (twin) brother  
ion nín - my son_

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Aragorn IS kind of stupid, isn't he? •shakes head• Ah well, that's hardly my fault. If he wants to get himself cut into pieces (most likely literally), there's nothing I can do... •innocent smile• So, in the next chapter more people hear about Aragorn's Fabulous Idea© and are none too happy about it and they actually set Aragorn's 'plan' in motion. Elrond really SHOULD chain them to something unmoving. •g• And yes, reviews are appreciated, cherished and loved. Thanks!**

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**Additional A/N:**

My apologies to Tatsumaki-sama and Mirwen Sunrider for not including them in my group emails I use to reply to my reviewers. To send you such emails, I need an email address, so either log in when you review (and make sure you have a valid email address listed on your profile page) or, if you prefer to review anonymously, leave me your email address. Thanks!


	8. Miscommunications

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**So. I'm back. •grins sheepishly• I guess most of you guys read my little note on my profile page? Well, for those who didn't, here's the short version: I wanted to reconnect my monitor during a Star Wars marathon and somehow managed to fry my computer in the process. Impossible, you say? That's what I thought. Ah well, after a bit I got parts of my brother's computer since he upgraded his, and somehow I managed to lethally damage his CPU and main board on the way from his flat to mine. I don't know how it happened. I don't know why it isn't working. It should - I checked every single possibility known to man - but it doesn't. So now I've given up, salvaged my most important data, put it on my laptop and am busy figuring out how I'll afford a new computer. Bets are on 'Not at all' at the moment. •dark grimace•**

**So, that's where I was. Half this chapter was stuck on my hard drive and I didn't want to re-write it - you have no idea in what foul a mood that puts me. It's better for everybody involved that I didn't. Right now I am slowly going insane because my laptop's so old (ancient would be a more accurate term, I think), but I'm coping. More or less. Sorry again for keeping you waiting; I really don't know why my computers hate me so much. •shrugs•**

**Anyway, here's the next chapter. It's a bit longer than usual to make up for the delay, so I guess that's something. •g• We see Aragorn, the twins and Legolas having an ... argument (Celylith is keeping out of it, smart guy that he is), see a bit more of Elrond, Erestor and Haldar as everybody finally gets to leave Rivendell (I know, FINALLY!), and there's also a bit of Baran (the ranger who disappeared) and our favourite villain, who turns out to be not a very nice guy. Nu-uh. Not nice at all.**

**Have fun and review, please!**

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Chapter 8

"You told _ada _that you would do _what_?"

Aragorn took a deep breath and forced himself to look his older brother – his very annoyed older brother – in the eye. If he was honest with himself, Elladan didn't look annoyed or angry. He looked downright furious.

"I told him that I would be leaving with Haldar. He wants to leave this afternoon."

Aragorn didn't really know how he managed to sound so casual. Elladan was their father's son, after all, and except for maybe Glorfindel there was no one in Rivendell who could match said father in displaying righteous anger. And, he decided almost absent-mindedly, if there had ever been a time when Elladan had looked more overcome by incredulous fury, he certainly couldn't remember it.

"How nice for him," the object of his deliberations commented acidly. "I'll be sure to stand on top of the stairs and wave him good-bye."

The expression on Elladan's face was so dark that Aragorn quickly came to the absent ranger's aid. He suddenly had the horrible mental image of Elladan doing something terrible and bloody, not to mention incredibly painful, to Haldar the next chance he got. Knowing his oldest brother, it wasn't all that unlikely, either.

"Don't blame Haldar for this," he told the glaring twin. "It's not his fault."

"Oh, I don't blame him," Elladan said in a way that didn't sound reassuring at all. "I blame you."

"Ah."

"No, that's not entirely correct," the older twin corrected himself. The glare that he shot at his human brother would have been visible in the dark. "Mostly, I blame you. But I also blame him."

"He put you up to this, didn't he?" Elrohir chimed in, looking almost as thunderous as his twin. "What did he tell you?"

"I told you this would happen." Legolas decided to intervene as well. If Aragorn hadn't known better, he would have thought the wood-elf only wanted to make sure that the chaos was complete. "Didn't I?"

Aragorn let his eyes wander over the three agitated elves in front of him before he turned to look at Celylith, who sat on the chair closest to the door and looked about as miserable as he felt.

"Don't look at me, Estel," the elf said and raised his hands when he became aware of the man's questioning stare, his silver hair gleaming in the bright sunlight. "I don't even want to _be _here."

"But you are going to stay here," Legolas said with emphasis, shooting a quick glare at his childhood friend. "If you want to or not."

Celylith gave Aragorn a look that conveyed both mild annoyance and sympathy before he inclined his head.  
"Yes, my lord."

Aragorn looked at the silver-haired elf as if he was the most loathsome traitor he had ever seen. Celylith looked back mutinously. If his prince hadn't dragged him here – straight out of bed, too! –, he would be looking for Lúthien right now. He shook his head inwardly. Even though he hated to admit it, at least once Legolas had been right about the bat – she _was _fluttery. And a rather independent mindset.

The young ranger narrowed his eyes at the elf and returned his attention to the three others that were sitting around him in a loose semicircle and were staring at him in a way that a less experienced being would have found very disconcerting. Come to think about it, even he felt a little trapped.

"First of all," he began, spearing Elladan with a similar _look_, "I am twenty-three years old. I am most definitely old enough to make such decisions for myself, and should I ever have need of your help in these matters, I will surely ask you. Second, and I know that this is hard to believe for you because you are overprotective, obstinate lunatics, I can decide things for myself without being 'put up' to them by somebody else. And third, if you already knew what I was going to say, why are you making such a fuss?"

"Predicting such a thing and actually _seeing _it are two very different things," Elladan said coldly.

"I am sorry to shock you so," Aragorn replied in a similar tone of voice.

"I find that hard to believe," Elrohir decided to join in. "One, because I know you, and two, because if you really were, you would have told us yourself yesterday evening and wouldn't have let us find out about your … plan … through _ada_."

Aragorn had the good grace to look at least faintly guilty. Elrohir was at least partly right to complain. After he had left the council chambers, he had quickly walked down to the kitchens and had smiled as brightly as possible at one of the junior chefs who had in turn – with an eye-roll worthy of Erestor – given him some of the pastries that were cooling off on a plate and had promptly shooed him out of the room. After that he had done his best to disappear into thin air, because he _knew_ his brothers. When it became clear that they and Legolas really, _really _wanted to find him, he had done the only thing that would postpone the inevitable argument: He had gone to bed.

Usually, that wouldn't have worked – they would have woken him up smiling cheerfully and most likely in a rather unpleasant manner –, but right now they were too afraid to upset him or interrupt his sleep. It wasn't a very nice thing to do – not to mention unfair – but, honestly, one man against three elves? What else was he supposed to do; one had to do what one had to do to even these odds.

It had worked, too – for a while, that was. After some hours of blessedly uninterrupted sleep, he had roughly been shaken back into wakefulness by his annoyed brothers. Ah well, Aragorn decided sleepily as he blinked into the bright light of the rising sun, it could have been a lot worse. They could have woken him up in the middle of the night. Then again, they could also have let him get out of bed before descending on him like carrion birds on a dead animal.

The young man released a long breath and closed his eyes. His brothers were right, at least a little, he decided guiltily, and at least a part of their anger was born of hurt.

"I am sorry, my brothers," he said. "I should have told you sooner and in person, and for that I apologise."

Elrohir, who had been about to say more, closed his mouth again with a snap. It wasn't really fair, he thought, looking at the dejected look on Estel's face. He was a fierce and fearsome warrior, an accomplished healer and well-respected at the negotiating table, but only one puppy dog-eyed look from his little brother and he was completely lost.

"Don't look at us like that, Estel," he told the man almost gruffly. "It isn't fair."

"Life's not fair," the young man retorted, his face as calm and composed as his voice.

"You're right about that, _muindor_," Elladan once again interjected. "It isn't, and that would be why you are not – and let me repeat that, _not_! – going to go with Haldar."

"Loath as I am to tell you this again, Elladan, you are not my father," Aragorn retorted, crossing his arms over his bare chest. They could at least have given him the time to dress before invading his rooms and interrogating him like this, he thought glumly. "Nor am I a child or your ward. I am an adult and more than capable of deciding such things for myself. And my decision is to go with Haldar and offer whatever help I can, and nothing any of you can say will change my mind."

Elladan looked back at him, brows drawn together in a fierce, Elrondish glower. It would have impressed even the most jaded politician or elf lord. Unfortunately for him, it did not impress Aragorn.

"We understand that, Estel," he finally said. "We do not wish to tell you how to live your life."

"Really?" Aragorn asked, raising his eyebrows mockingly. "Well, that's a new one."

"Estel." It was all that Elrohir said. He didn't have to say more. His half-hurt, half-disappointed tone of voice was enough to make the man cringe inwardly and lower his head. He hated it when his brothers were talking to him like this. "You know that we do not," Elrohir went on. "We wish only the best for you and worry about you. We are your brothers; we can't help it."

"What if this _is_ best for me?" the young ranger demanded to know.

"The best way to commit suicide, you mean," Elladan interjected darkly.

Elrohir glared at him in a way that made Celylith heartily glad that he wasn't him and was in fact staying out of this conversation. Elladan's expression faltered a little under his twin's look of obvious displeasure, but he didn't look overly repentant. The wood-elf would almost have shaken his head. Noldor.

"It is dangerous," Legolas spoke up in the most reasonable tone of voice he possessed. "It…"

"Elbereth Gilthoniel, yes!"

It was Aragorn's shout that interrupted him, who was staring at his fair-haired friend in obvious anger and was throwing up his hands. If he hadn't been sitting in his bed, surrounded by all of them, Celylith was quite sure he would have jumped to his feet as well.

"I know!" the man went on. "I am not a moron, an imbecile or anything of the like! I know that I am not an elf – I actually noticed at one point or other over the past twenty years, you know?! So yes, I only heard about what happened to so many of my kin, I only heard about Sauron's treachery and cruelty. But I am no fool, and I have my fair share of imagination. I can vividly picture what would happen to me should Sauron ever find me, and I am also aware that even my worst fears are probably not even getting close to reality! What do you think of me, that I am a reckless fool who doesn't even know enough to contemplate the consequences of his actions, that I am a thoughtless idiot who would unwittingly commit suicide in his folly? Do you honestly think I _want_ to die?" He paused for a second before adding quietly, "Because I don't."

"Then listen to us, Estel," Elladan told him insistently, leaning forward to stare at his human brother. "Someone, maybe even agents of the Dark One himself, is looking for you."

"You don't know that."

"No, we don't," Legolas admitted. "But it would make an awful lot of sense, wouldn't it?"

"Even if it isn't Sauron who is looking for you, or there's no one looking for you at all, it's far too risky," Elrohir joined his brother and friend. "Stay here, Estel, and let us deal with this."

Oh yes, Celylith thought sarcastically. Very clever. Now Aragorn would surely agree, wouldn't he?

Predictably enough, the dark-haired man shook his head.  
"I can't. Even if I wanted to let you risk your lives for me – which I don't – I can't. Not this time."

Elladan and Elrohir bristled. Legolas looked as if his friend's words didn't really surprise him, but also as if he wasn't going to let his words stand uncontested. Before any of them could say anything, however, Celylith interjected, quite clearly intent on gaining control of this conversation before it could once again descend into a shouting match. He understood the twins' and Legolas' concern only too well, but he also understood Aragorn.

"Why not?" he simply asked.

Aragorn looked surprised for a second, as if he hadn't counted on anybody actually asking him a question like this. After a second he shot Celylith a look of such deep gratitude that the silver-haired elf felt positively guilty. It was clear that the young man wanted his brothers to understand him more than anything else, but equally clear that he wasn't expecting them to actually do anything like that.

"Because I know I can help them," Aragorn said. "Because I have seen what happened."

"Because you have seen…" Legolas repeated and trailed off, an expression of faint, almost desperate disdain on his face. "Oh, I understand."

"You have seen it?" Elrohir asked as well. "Did you have another dream, Estel?"

"No." Aragorn shook his head.

"Then you recognised something," Elladan said matter-of-factly. "What did Haldar say to you?"

"Will you please stop blaming Haldar for everything?" Aragorn asked, exasperation in his voice. "He didn't say anything to me. He told me nothing that wasn't true and didn't try to influence me in any way. I even got the very distinct impression that he would like nothing more than see me somewhere both very safe and far away, like in the middle of Lothlórien."

Elladan seemed to accept his words even though his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He clearly had nothing specific against the ranger, but it was both more satisfying and easier to blame him for this entire mess than his human brother.

"All right, then. He said nothing. Still, what did you recognise?"

Aragorn sighed inwardly. Elladan wouldn't know how to give up or back down, not even if someone drew him a map in nice, bright colours.

"The star," he finally admitted, sounding almost miserable. "The star I told you about, the one that looked too … perfect … to be a real star. I saw Haldar's brooch and recognised it instantly. I don't even know why I didn't think of it sooner." He shook his head self-depreciatingly. "I have one myself, after all."

It took the twins less than two seconds to pierce everything together.  
"That is no proof at all, Estel," Elrohir eventually said in a tone of voice he would have used to calm skittish colts or small, frightened animals. "You could have … well, just…"

"Just what, Elrohir?" the man asked calmly. Elrohir winced almost visibly. He would have much preferred it if he had grown angry again. "Please, tell me what else it could be!" Aragorn went on, looking at his brother almost pleadingly. "I don't think I have to tell you again how much these dreams frighten me, so, please, if you have any other explanation for this, share it with me!"

"It could have been random," Elladan suggested. "Your abilities have only just started to manifest themselves. You do not have any control over them yet, so there is no telling what it is you see."

"Oh, yes, surely." Aragorn snorted, folding his arms across his chest. Considering that he was still in bed and not even wearing a shirt, he managed to convey sarcastic arrogance in an astonishingly successful way. Legolas winced. If Aragorn got openly sarcastic to just this degree, it was generally best not to be in the vicinity. "Let me see. I suddenly start having these … well, let's call them unpleasant, shall we? … visions, visions of a kind I've never had before. The only recognisable thing I can remember is a star; the only other things are blood, fire, death, pain, fear and all the other enjoyable things like that. At the same time Haldar appears here in Rivendell, sent by the Captains to ask for our help – which the Dúnedain are _so_ keen on doing as well all know – and, oh yes, he also tells me that all the disappearing rangers might have been killed because they wouldn't betray me to my enemies." He nodded mockingly. "You're right, Elladan, it must be a coincidence. It can't possibly be connected."

"It is unbecoming an elf lord to mock his elders," Elladan told him, trying to lighten the mood.

"Well, I am not!" Aragorn exclaimed. "I am not an elf lord! I never was, and I never will be! I am not one of the Eldar; I am nothing but a man!"

"You are not," Legolas said gently. "You are so much more than 'just' a man."

Aragorn turned his head to look at him, and for a second the elf was taken aback by the anger in his eyes.  
"Now that you mention it, you might be right. I am the Lord of the Dúnedain. They are _my_ people, _my_ responsibility. And I am going to accompany Haldar and do everything in my power to ensure that the one responsible for all this is found."

"Are you now?" Elladan asked darkly. "And then what?"

"Then I am going to make sure that he or she or they never do anything to harm the Dúnedain ever again." He paused in mock thoughtfulness. "I guess that could mean chaining them up somewhere, but I think that killing them would be much more satisfying."

"You don't understand, do you?" Elrohir asked in a similar tone of voice that his twin had used earlier. "This isn't about helping the Rangers. This isn't about chasing orcs or trolls or uruks, or highwaymen or vagabonds. This is about the very real possibility of someone, perhaps even the Dark Lord himself, looking for the Heir of Isildur. And if they find him, if they find _you_, they will do more than invite you to a tea party."

"No, really, Elrohir?" Aragorn asked. It was clear that he hadn't only adopted his foster-father's _look_, but also his dry, devastating irony. "I wouldn't have thought. We are going round and round in circles. We have been over this at least two or three times already. Nothing is going to change. I am leaving this afternoon with Haldar. _Ada_ has given me permission and will undoubtedly be loading me with bandages and healing equipment. You have expressed your dissatisfaction. And that is it."

"No, that is not it!" Elladan exclaimed. Legolas and Celylith exchanged a look. This wasn't really going the way it was supposed to. "I realise that we are sometimes overprotective. It's something we can't change, or maybe don't even want to change. That doesn't matter now. This is a very clear and present danger, Aragorn. A danger you could avoid, if you would only cease being so damned stubborn and actually listened to your elders for a second!"

"An interesting comment, especially coming from _you_," the man said emotionlessly. "As I said before, I am not doing this out of stubbornness or false pride or because Haldar put me up to it. I am doing this because I have to, because these people are my responsibility, and because I know I can help them. I have seen one death already; I am not going to just sit here and wait for another to occur. These visions seem like a curse, but they might very well be a gift as well. I can use them to see what is going to happen, I can use them to help my people."

"You are twenty-three, Estel," Elrohir said, his voice carefully controlled. "They were your first 'real' visions, and you still haven't recovered from them. There is no way at all you will be able to see anything clearly enough to help anybody, at least not in the next few weeks, maybe even months."

"I will have to try, for staying here and doing nothing is _not_ an option."

"It is your only option!" Elladan told him, anger and fear clouding his voice. "You cannot expect us to let you ride to your certain doom just like that! We will not allow it!"

"I am not yours to command, and there is nothing for which I would need your permission," Aragorn told his older brother coldly. "I would like all of you to leave now. I have many things to do and little time to do them."

Elladan merely glared at him while Elrohir shook his head, but Legolas decided to try again.  
"Estel, please…"

"No." The young ranger shook his head, his eyes dark and steely. "There is nothing more to say. I had hoped that you would understand, but, deep down, I think I always knew that none of you would. Leave, please."

The twins didn't hesitate. In second, Elladan was gone, dark robes swirling around his tall figure. Elrohir wasn't far behind, dividing his parting scowl between his twin's rigid back and the young human who was sitting in his bed and was resolutely staring at nothing. Legolas stood up as well, looking uncertain for a moment, but then he turned around as well, gesturing at Celylith while he left the room. The silver-haired elf followed his prince's unspoken command and got to his feet, hesitating for a second or two before he followed the other elf out of the door.

But there was really nothing he could say and nothing he could do; this was a problem between Estel and his brothers and Legolas, and only an idiot with a death wish would interfere.

"Good morning, Estel," Celylith said with the barest hint of a small, sad smile, and a second later he was gone, too, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

In the light-filled room, Aragorn sat back against the headboard, leaned his head against the carved wood and closed his eyes.  
**  
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** **  
**  
The sun was slowly making her way over the horizon, moving in the deliberate, almost lazy fashion he had seen so many times in the past. He calculated that in a minute or two, she would disappear from his line of sight – from where he was, he could only see a tiny part of the sky. And he very much doubted that his captors would oblige him and untie him to allow him to see more.

Baran would have chuckled if he hadn't known that it would hurt far more than it would be worth. He very, _very_ much doubted that his captors would extend him this courtesy. Orcs weren't known for their civility and willingness to co-operate.

That was maybe the worst thing about all this, even worse than the pain and fear and darkness and hopelessness: The orcs. He had seen more than enough of them in his little more than thirty years, and had come to loathe everything about them from the bottom of his heart. He hated their cruelty and callousness, their unthinking hatred for everything and anything good and fair and living, the darkness that hung about them so thickly that one could almost reach out and grasp it, the enjoyment they felt when inflicting pain on something or someone weak and helpless, and even their hideous, deformed faces and gleaming yellow eyes.

Baran grimaced almost invisibly. He had experienced most of the above over the past day and a half, including a fair share of cruelty, sadism and darkness liberally interspersed with taunts, stupid remarks and vicious jokes. That in itself, terrifying and painful as it might be, was nothing strange or even overly remarkable. Orcs were the way they were and acted the way they did and always had done; it was in the nature of the thing itself. Maybe they couldn't even act differently if they wanted to, who knew.

But the thing that really, really frightened him, even more than the pain and the terror and the oh-so-certain knowledge that he would never get out of this cave alive, was the fact that these weren't behaving like "normal" orcs. They beat him, of course, and they did everything else to inflict pain and make sure he was as miserable as possible (and that meant that he was quite miserable indeed), but they … they followed orders.

This time, the young man actually snorted and would have laughed out loud if he had been in a slightly less horrible situation and in less pain. Orders! _He_ had trouble following orders sometimes, which was at least partly why he was in this particular mess in the first time. _His friends_, who were all under the age of forty and a few even under the age of thirty, had sometimes trouble following orders and were now and then getting into real trouble with their commanding officers because of it, but it was to be expected. Rangers were only humans, after all, and no commanding officer worth his salt would ever expect young human males to act like mature, self-controlled beings all the time, not even young male Dúnedain. And now here he was, stuck in a cave with orcs that obeyed orders better than him.

If he got out here alive – which he wouldn't – no one was going to believe him.

Baran wasn't entirely certain if he believed it himself. But it was what his captors were saying: "Get moving, _tark_, or the Master will hear about it!" They still hit him whether he got moving or not, but that didn't seem to matter. And he had yet to see this master they were talking about, even though he had the very clear suspicion that that was in fact the last thing he really wanted. He had only heard his voice once, right before he had lost consciousness, and so he didn't know who he was or even of what race he was. All he knew was that he was strong, silent, and spoke perfect Common, which was precious little.

But even though said master still had to make an appearance, it was clear that his control over the horde was strong. They hit him and hurt him as they pleased, but they hadn't done any permanent damage. Considering that his captors were orcs and had had him for more than twenty-four hours already, it was a sign of remarkable, almost unheard-of restraint.

The sun finally moved out of his line of sight, and Baran closed his eyes, feeling alone and bereft and utterly hopeless. He was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his entire life, and not only because he knew that he would undoubtedly be dead in three days' time – if he was lucky, that was. If these had been "normal" orcs, he would have been able to deal with the situation, but they were not and he was lost and adrift in a situation he could not understand or interpret. All he had was a feeling that wouldn't leave him alone no matter how much he tried, a feeling that darkness was gathering all around him and that there was no way out.

With the black humour that had often annoyed his family, Baran smiled to himself. That feeling would have been a mite more useful if he'd had it two days ago.

His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come as the sound of heavy boots could be heard, coming up from behind him and unerringly nearing his position, and the young man couldn't suppress a shiver that raced up his spine. He wasn't so jaded yet that he didn't care what was going on around him; even though everything hurt and he was half numb with terror and fear, he wasn't quite numb enough yet. He wanted to live, far more than he wanted anything else at the moment, and he knew with chilling certainty that he wouldn't.

He was a ranger and prepared to sacrifice his life for his people, his captain or the whole of Eriador in their fight against the Dark One and his servants, but he had always imagined himself doing so in some sort of battle or skirmish, when he at least knew what was going on and why he was dying. He hadn't thought he would meet his death alone in some orc cave, and he certainly hadn't thought it would be so soon. He wasn't even thirty-six, by Elbereth's stars!

The footsteps drew nearer and nearer, and Baran did his best to sit up straighter, or rather as straight as a person chained to a stone wall could. He idly wondered if every other cave in Arda had metal rings embedded in the walls for chaining up prisoners before he returned to the present with a start. He might be scared out of his mind and certain of his impending death, but he would be damned if he showed _them_ that.

The flickering light of torches grew brighter behind him, and with more strength of will than he knew he possessed, Baran turned away from the small hole in the cave's wall to face his captors. The opening high up the wall, less than half a square foot big, was far too small for him to escape through even if he hadn't been chained up and was the only source of light in this terrible, hopeless little cell. The young ranger was very certain that they had put him in here on purpose, just to torment him further with the unreachable, tempting sight of freedom and light and air.

It was something that this bunch of orcs would do and something that would most likely not even occur to "normal" ones, and yet another reason why he thought that he was in far more trouble than he or any of his friends had ever been in or even heard about.

The first orc stepped into the small, dark space, a flickering torch clasped in one of its clawed hands, and Baran had to close his eyes – well, eye, really, since his left one was swollen shut – in order not to be blinded by the sudden light. He didn't try to stand up since his arms were chained to the wall about three or four feet above the ground, but he did his best not to look as beaten as he really was. Considering that one of his eyes was swollen shut, his face was covered in blood and bruises and his clothes were ripped and dirty, it didn't really work.

"Look at that, boys," the orc said, turning around to its three companions that only now came into sight, "the little ranger is still here."

The others cackled dutifully, and Baran forced a grin onto his face. He might have to die, yes, but he would be damned into Morgoth's fire-pits and back if he allowed these … things … to see just how afraid he really was.

"I found our last few conversations so fascinating and intellectually challenging that I decided to stay." He wrinkled his nose at the four orcs. "It definitely wasn't for your charm."

"Ah, ain't that pretty, lads?" another orc sneered, a mixture of anger, hatred and anticipation on his hideous face. "He's still got some fight left in him. That'll make everything so much more fun, won't it, _pushdug_?"

"Untie me and I'll show you how much fight I have still left in me, _orch_," Baran retorted with far more bravado than he actually felt. Even if they untied him and armed him, he still wouldn't stand a chance against them, and they all knew that. "But you won't. Your cowardice is a shame even for the _Glamhoth_."

Before his still half-blinded eyes had even realised one of them was moving, a brutal blow to his already hurting face snapped his head to the side and slammed his cheek into the rough stone wall. White flashes of pain stabbed through his brain so viciously that he would almost have lost consciousness, but he wasn't that lucky. After some seconds the agony receded to more bearable levels, and reality swam back into focus to the sounds of the orcs' guffawing laughter.

Manwë's breath, but they were strong, he decided blurrily as he shook his head slightly from side to side. The metal armour helped as well, of course.

He still hadn't gathered his breath when a gloved hand grasped the front of his torn shirt and jerked him up, the spiky metal bands wrapped around it digging painfully into his throat. The first orc who had entered his cell was staring at him with malice in the gleaming yellow eyes, its face twisted into a leering grin, and Baran absent-mindedly wondered what had happened to the torch it had been holding while he was gasping for breath. A warm wetness slowly trickled down his face, and he realised somewhat dazedly that that the blow must have reopened a cut, or have caused a new one. It hardly mattered anymore.

"Let's be clear about one thing, pretty boy," the orc hissed at him, sounding pleased at having had a chance to hit him rather than truly angry. Then again, maybe he sounded like that all the time. "One more word of that filthy elf speech and you'll regret it."

"Already … regretting it," Baran gasped out. The orc grinned at him and released him, and he added, "_Pen-faer vûl i Goth Fuiannen."_

The Sindarin words rolled easily off his tongue, and Baran had just enough time to decide that his father would have been pleased at his accent or rather the lack thereof and that Amlaith would have been really proud of his inventive way of putting their Sindarin lessons to good use before the orc in front of him recovered. The pain that the Elvish words had caused the foul creature was still visible on its face when it drew back slightly to drive its metal-encased fist once more into the ranger's unprotected face. The second blow followed a second later and made contact with his temple, and that was the moment when Baran's consciousness decided that enough was enough and that it was off to greener pastures.

The young ranger barely felt the blows that kept connecting with his helpless body as he swam in and out of consciousness, and he only heard a snarl or crude laughter now and then over the thunderously loud beating of his heart. Even those sounds suddenly stopped after an eternity or two of abuse, and that was something that Baran's subconsciousness found interesting enough to investigate. Against the ranger's firm insistence that unconsciousness was a far more attractive choice, he once again began to become aware of his surroundings, and he opened his eyes just in time to see two of his attackers back away from him with a speed that left his beaten and bruised brain dizzy.

"Enough."

It was only one simple word, but it was more than enough. The orcs that had a second ago been doing their very best to put holes into him with their fists (and had been doing quite a nice job, too) bowed low and shuffled back even a little further in supplication. It took Baran quite a while to focus his eyes sufficiently to really see something, but even before his eyes came to rest on a tall, dark-cloaked figure standing at the entrance of the cave, he knew that the mysterious master the orcs had mentioned had arrived.

Well, he told himself, trying to cheer himself up, at least it wasn't a Nazgûl. What it (he?) was he couldn't see since the person had pulled his hood over his face, but it was no Ringwraith.

"Leave us," the cloaked figure went on, turning around to look at the orcs cowering in the corner. "We will talk about this later. Take the torches with you."

The orcs didn't say anything and soundlessly moved out of the room, creeping alongside the walls like dark, hideously distorted shadows. Baran was surprised to see something like relief on the face of one of them, and for a brief, irrational second he almost felt something like pity.

It was a very brief second.

The figure hadn't moved while his servants left the cell and only now stepped forward, the darkness that had once again descended over the small cave seemingly intensifying as he stepped closer. Baran, still trembling and nauseous from the pain, couldn't hide the shiver that crept over his back and into his heart. This might not be a Nazgûl, but whatever he or it was, it was dark and … evil.

The hooded figure seemed to study him closely for a few moments before he moved back, leaning comfortably against the opposite wall. Considering the small size of the cell, it was only about five feet away, but the darkness that lay heavily over the room and the deep hood were enough to obscure his features completely, which was surely the point of the exercise.

"So," the cloaked being finally said when Baran only stared at him with dark grey eyes. "You are awake."

There was not much to say to that, and Baran opted for keeping silent. Enraging orcs was one thing, but somehow he had the feeling that enraging this one would mean something else entirely.

"Not communicative, are we?" the other asked, amusement in his voice. "We will have to change that."

This time, it was harder to remain silent, but somehow Baran managed. It was surely also connected to the fact that the orcs had knocked out two of his teeth and his mouth was once again rapidly filling with blood.

"Now, this will not do," the hooded person said, shaking his head in a thoroughly exaggerated manner. "This will not do at all. I do not have a lot of time today, so the least you should do is do me the courtesy to open your mouth."

That finally did it. Fuelled by his outrage and the need to spit out a mouthful of blood, Baran did the latter before he once again glared at the other, vainly trying to pierce the gloom of the hood. All he knew was that the other being was male; he was speaking in a deliberately low tone of voice and could have been an elf as well as a man, a polite orc or even an overgrown dwarf or hobbit.

"Who are you?" the young ranger asked, his voice tight and angry. "What do you want from me?"

"Ah, those are two very interesting questions," the other answered, nodding his head in agreement. "Who do you think I am?"

"A coward," Baran answered promptly. "A coward who attacks people from behind and lets orcs do his dirty work."

"I don't let them do my dirty work," the cloaked one protested. "It is a mutually satisfactory agreement. They are enjoying this part of the process while I detest it slightly, so it works for everybody." He paused, and Baran could almost see how he shook his head under his heavy hood as he looked at him. "Well, almost everybody, it would appear. My … associates … tend to become the tiniest bit over-eager from time to time, but that is a small matter, I suppose. And: Is there a safer way?"

"What?!"

By now, Baran was completely flabbergasted, or as flabbergasted as someone who felt as if his brain was leaking out of his ears could be. He wasn't really sure what he had expected, but it certainly hadn't involved civilised conversation.

"To attack someone," the other went on patiently, as if talking to a small child. "To do it from behind in order to catch the victim unawares is by far the safest method, at least in my opinion."

"And you wonder why I call you a coward?" the ranger asked, fighting hard not to allow himself to be thrown off-balance. He winced slightly as his tongue found the spot where two perfectly working teeth had been not too long ago. "Who in the name of Eru Ilúvatar _are_ you?"

"I?" the other asked, sounding mockingly surprised at the question. "I am the end of the Rangers, boy."

"It will take much more to 'end' us than a single man," Baran shot back immediately, his confusion turning into anger. Just who did this … person … think he was? "You are having delusions of grandeur!"

The blow came so suddenly and unexpectedly that the young ranger didn't have the slightest bit of time to mentally prepare himself before a fist connected with his chin, sending the back of his head crashing back against the cold stone wall. In the seconds that he fought to lose consciousness – and failed to do so yet again –, Baran decided absent-mindedly that his head would burst open like an overripe melon the next time someone confused it with a sack of grain.

"Now, let's try to remain civil, shan't we?"

The words cut through the haze that filled his brain, and Baran struggled to open eyes he hadn't even realised he'd closed. His captor was still leaning against the wall opposite of him, looking as if he hadn't moved at all in the past few minutes.

"You had your … 'associates' … ambush me," the ranger said, laboriously trying to force his brain not to give up on him right here and now. "You struck me down from behind and let them 'amuse' themselves with me as they saw fit for over a day, and you expect me to remain _civil_?"

"Yes," the other answered simply. "In my experience, one should try to keep things polite as long as possible." He paused and cocked his hooded head slightly to the side, and Baran found himself trembling at a look he couldn't even see. "Trust me, things will turn uncomfortable soon enough. And I did not let them amuse themselves with you as they saw fit. If I had, you wouldn't be able to think clearly right now, let alone speak."

"You're mad," Baran told him, deciding to abandon eloquence for simplicity. "Completely and utterly mad. You think you will be the 'end of the Rangers'? I think we'll rather be the end of you."

"Brave words for someone chained to a wall," his captor said in a completely unimpressed tone of voice. "And none I haven't heard before."

"You did this," Baran said, voicing something he had known ever since he had woken up to this nightmare. "You killed all the others."

"Hmm … yes, I think I did at that." The cloaked being nodded.

"My people will find you," the young ranger said, his mind reeling. "You will not get away with this."

"They haven't found me before, and I doubt that they will find me now." The tall figure shook his head again, the movement almost solemn. "But they _have_ been trying, I give them that."

"You will pay for this, _móradan_," Baran said, well aware of the fact that nothing he said impressed the other in the slightest. The young ranger shivered; his body felt frozen and his tired brain refused to co-operate, stunned with surprise and pain and fear and terror. "In this world or the next, you will pay."

"'Man of Darkness'. How quaint," the other retorted and began to chuckle at the look of astonishment on Baran's face. "Oh yes, I understand the Elvish tongue, ranger. Don't insult my intelligence. You are quite wrong, of course, but no matter."

He pushed off the wall and took a step closer to his captive, and Baran needed all his strength of will to not flinch or betray his fear in any other way.

"But I guess you are right," the ranger's captor said, sounding strangely honest for a second. "I probably _will_ pay for this, at one point or other."

He closed the small distance between them, his black cloak fluttering around him like a living, breathing thing that seemed to fill the entire cave with its darkness. And Baran, feeling how terror rose up inside of him to fill his entire being, found himself praying for a swift death, and that the Valar be just and punish this insane creature for his deeds.

It wasn't much to cling to, barely more than nothing at all, but it was all there was.  
**  
** **  
** **  
**  
"Splints?"

"Yes."

"Athelas?"

Elrond looked slightly offended at the very question.  
"I packed two large bunches. Do you think that's enough?"

"Hmm. Good question. Is this kit for Estel only or for all of them?"

"The twins are taking their own supplies with them. At least, that is the plan."

"Then it should be enough. If they don't stay too long, that is."

"I don't think that getting yourself killed in a highly idiotic manner takes that much time," the half-elf said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't say more than three or four weeks. Maybe five or six, but that's the absolute maximum. Whatever is left of them by then would surely want to attend Captain Isál's wedding, I would think."

"Oh yes, the wedding. Let me see … what about the other herbs? _Harucholor_, _losdalas_…"

"Already packed."

"Bandages?"

"Please, _mellon nín_. They're in the other pack."

Erestor shot the huge bag in the corner of the little store room a quick look, wisely refrained from commenting and returned his attention to the list he had affixed to a wooden clipboard.

"That new salve you made to treat burns? It's becoming quite popular, it seems."

The other elf lord snorted.  
"Popular is a nice way of putting it. But yes, there are two jars somewhere in there. Anything else I should remember?"

The younger elf perused the list and finally shook his head.  
"No, my lord. Except the obvious thing, of course."

"And what would that be?" Elrond asked, closing the second bag. It wasn't quite as large as the first, but looked considerably heavier. He didn't care. Aragorn was lucky he got off so easy.

"Not letting him go," Erestor answered quietly. "This is folly, my lord, and you know it well."

Elrond closed his eyes and bowed his head. He opened his eyes again and looked down on the satchel resting on the work table where he'd gathered all the healing supplies he could think of before he'd started cramming them all into two bags. His long fingers absent-mindedly stroked over the worn leather in complicated patterns.

"Yes," he finally said in a voice so low that one could hardly hear it. "Yes, I do know. But I don't have any choice in the manner and even less influence. All I can do is give in gracefully and hope for the best."

"He is your son, my lord," Erestor said with the firm, confident conviction of the childless. "He should honour you enough to respect your decisions."

The half-elven healer turned to look at him and gave him a pained smile.  
"Sometime over the past few years, he grew up, Erestor. Yes, he is my son, and yes, he would never defy me or disregard my orders when they concern anything connected to our home or his life as part of all this," he made a sweeping, jerking movement to gesture at the room as a representation of Rivendell as a whole, "but he is also the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. There I cannot touch him, even if I wanted to. My authority ends at the borders of my realm, and he know it well."

"He hasn't said that, has he?" Erestor looked torn between disbelief and mild shock. He had known the young man for practically all his life, and Estel was nothing if not respectful towards his father.

"Of course not." This time, the grin was wry, even though the pain was still there, undiminished. "He doesn't have to. He knows it, and I know it. And the worst thing is … it is his right. He has been staying here in Rivendell for far too long, and it has not gone unnoticed by the Captains. Aragorn's place is with his people. He is the son of Arathorn, not mine."

"Now, _that _he most definitely did not say," the other elf lord said with complete conviction. "Arathorn was his sire, Elrond. You are his father."

"I am not sure it makes a difference this time," Elrond said, shaking his head, but there was a grateful glint in his eyes that Erestor did not miss. "It still leaves him with the rank and position of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain and Captain of the Rangers and all the responsibilities and duties that come with it." He shook his head again. "An overgrown sense of responsibility and the recklessness of youth are a dangerous combination."

"I doubt that his recklessness can be attributed to his youth," Erestor disagreed, sounding as calm as ever. He crossed his arms across his chest, his left hand still gripping the clipboard. "I would blame it on his role models. The twins are how old now, 2800 years? I may be biased, but I don't think that they are showing any signs of improvement in this particular area."

"2834 years."

"I beg your pardon?"

"They are 2834 years old."

"Thank you," the dark-haired councillor said wryly. "My point, if you would allow me to make it, is that you don't have to let him go. I know that you can neither control the Rangers nor their captain, no matter who that might be at the moment. Rivendell has always entertained close ties with the Dúnedain, but we have never interfered in their internal affairs."

"I know," Elrond said with a testiness that had nothing at all to do with Erestor. "It was I who established them. Besides, they are my kin."

"I am well aware of that, my lord." Erestor nodded his head. "But Estel will listen to you. He was my student for many years, and I know him well. He is a respectful boy and will acknowledge your superior knowledge and wisdom."

"I agree," the other elf lord said calmly. "Estel would listen to me. What Aragorn will do is something else entirely."

"They are one and the same, Elrond."

"Of course they are," Elrond acknowledged with a small smile. "And they are not. Estel is Aragorn, but Aragorn isn't necessarily Estel." He closed his eyes and sighed. "It doesn't matter. Right now, my errant son is confused and very, very frightened. He thinks he can help his people, and I can not in all conscience tell him that he is wrong."

"But you don't have to tell him that he is right." Erestor stood his ground. He rubbed his forehead in a rare gesture of exasperation before he looked at his friend again. "You have been talking with Glorfindel again, haven't you?"

Elrond looked at him in amusement.  
"I have, actually, and he asked me the very same thing a minute into the conversation. The two of you are very predictable, which of course both of you would deny with your dying breath. Besides, why does that question always sound like 'You have been eating small children again, haven't you?'?"

"Have you?"

"Not lately, no."

"That is reassuring to hear. But still, talking with Glorfindel about this matter is hardly helpful in my opinion. Since that whole killed-by-a-balrog-and-sent-back-by-the-Valar thing, he is far too keen to accept what he believes to be 'fate'."

"Oh, I am not so sure about that," Elrond said, studying his friend thoughtfully. "I can remember one or two times in the not so very remote past that he refused to accept fate or even what looked like facts. He was rather adamant about it."

Erestor lowered his head to hide his expression, knowing perfectly well that Elrond was talking about the time when he had been a captive in Donrag and had been thought to be dead. Glorfindel had refused to accept his 'death', just as adamantly as he always refused to back down from a position he believed to be right. Erestor was very sure that, without his friend's persistence, he would be very, very dead right now.

He might still have … problems … talking to Glorfindel, at least talking to him in the way the blond elf wanted him to, but he knew that Glorfindel knew how very grateful he was for his help.

He _had_ to know, hadn't he?

"I know," he said quietly. "And I wouldn't criticise him for it. I am sorry if it sounded as if I had."

"I know," Elrond said with a smile. "There are a few things one could criticise Glorfindel for, but this isn't one of them."

"A few?"

Elrond's smile widened.  
"You will have to discuss this with him, my friend. I am far too old and wise to get involved in one of your squabbles."

"Elf lords do not squabble. I am sure it is an entry in Glorfindel's list."

"Undoubtedly. My point is that I know that this is a very bad idea. I know that it is dangerous, and reckless and most likely a dozen other unsavoury things, but I have no choice but to let Estel go. It is his right as the Captain of the Rangers and the Lord of the Dúnedain, he is not my subject, and I cannot rightly say that I think his reasoning is wrong or even faulty. He is an adult and makes his own decisions, and if I were to rob him of them, I would make things that much worse."

Erestor looked at him for a long time and finally bowed his head. He had sat at too many negotiation tables and had listened to too many dead-serious people (most of them had been connected to his lord in one way or other, now that he thought about it) to know when he should give in gracefully.

"I bow to your wisdom, my lord," he said with a small nod. "I just hope that you will not regret this decision."

"I am already regretting it," Elrond ground out between clenched teeth. "The Kindler be my witness, I already am. Yet I have no choice in this, and that is maybe what galls me most of all." He forcibly un-clenched his teeth (Erestor was sure he could hear the grinding noise that the action produced) and took up the bag he had packed a few minutes ago, hefting it over his shoulder. "Will you accompany me to see them off?"

"I wouldn't miss it." Erestor smiled at him and automatically headed over to where the other bag sat propped against the wall and was already reaching down to pick it up with his free hand when Elrond's words stopped him in his tracks.

"Ah, maybe I should take that…"

Erestor hesitated for a moment but didn't turn around, grinding his teeth in frustration. He loved Elrond dearly and would willingly die for him, but sometimes the half-elf's overprotective streak – which he had passed on to all his children, by the way – was enough to drive him to the kind of madness that usually was accompanied by running-around-in-circles, hair-pulling and unhinged cackling.

"If you even think about offering to carry the bag for me, Elrond, I might forget my oath of allegiance and might try and snap off your hand at the wrist. I am realistic enough to realise that I would probably never manage to even touch you if you don't want me to – I am but a scholar, after all –, but I would most definitely try."

He took up the bag and turned around, coming almost face to face with a rather shame-faced Elrond. The half-elf could move fast and soundlessly, he had to admit that.

"I was just worried about your hand…" Elrond began.

"My hand is fine," Erestor stressed, giving his lord and friend a sharp look before he turned away and walked out of the store room. "And so is the rest of me. We talked about this, Elrond. Please don't start it again."

There was more pleading than annoyance in his voice, and so Elrond let it be. The half-elf knew how hard it was for the other elf lord to admit to any kind of weakness – or what he perceived to be weakness – and knew perfectly well that the last method that would glean any kind of result was pressuring him. In that regard Erestor was very much like a certain golden-haired elf lord of their acquaintance: If he felt cornered or pressured, he became obstinate and stubborn.

Erestor wasn't the only one who knew when to give up. Elrond only inclined his head at his friend's retreating back and followed him out of the door and into the direction of the courtyard. They were silent for the few minutes that it took them to reach their destination, and when they stepped outside and into the bright sunlight, Elrond didn't miss how the other elf lord straightened almost imperceptibly and sighed. Erestor had gained a new appreciation of light and the breeze on his face, and he didn't have to wonder why.

The same tightly controlled chaos that always reigned in the courtyard before a departure could be seen now, with people running to and fro and carrying things from one end of the yard to the other. Two elves were carrying bags of what looked like supplies toward a group of horses in the middle of the bustling space, while a stable boy brought out Aragorn's horse. Ráca wasn't bedecked with the new saddle and tack the young man had received as a late birthday-cum-_Yestarë_ present from his brothers and Legolas – quite sensible, of course, when travelling in the guise of a simple ranger – and she looked quite put out about it, too. Elven horses could sometimes possess a little too much personality.

In the middle of it all stood Haldar, looking as if nothing of this concerned him at all. Technically speaking, of course, it didn't. Next to him stood Commander Meneldir, who, as Elrond remembered, had become quite friendly with the ranger over the past few days. It was rather strange, considering that Haldar was tight-lipped and silent even for one of the Rangers and that Meneldir didn't truly like humans. He had nothing against the _Edain_, but he had his problems with the rest of the Second People, something that Elrond could even understand from time to time.

The two of them straightened when the two elf lords stepped up to them, unconsciously reacting to the serious expressions on their faces. Elrond carefully put down the bag he was carrying and waited for Erestor to do the same before he turned to the ranger, doing his best not to glare at him. He knew that all this was technically speaking not the man's fault, but he couldn't help but resent him for his role as the catalyst that had started a chain reaction whose end he couldn't see, no matter how hard he tried.

"Master Haldar," he finally said as neutrally as he could. "Commander."

It clearly hadn't been as neutral as he'd thought. Meneldir's spine, already ramrod-straight, stiffened even further as he stood to attention so perfectly that it would have made any parade ground sergeant weep with joy.

"My lords," the commander said. Erestor was secretly astonished that he could even talk, stiffened-up like that. When it became clear that Elrond was in no mood for pleasantries, he turned to Haldar, his eyes only widening the tiniest bit. "I will leave you. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Haldar."

"The pleasure has been mine, Commander." Even despite the formality of his words, the ranger smiled, something that made him look far younger. He was young, Elrond realised again, something that was far too easy to forget in face of his solemn behaviour. Forty-seven really was no age at all for a _dúnadan_. "If you are ever near our camp, come and see me."

Meneldir returned the smile. He hadn't spent all that much time with the ranger, but he liked what he had seen until now. Haldar was honest and direct and possessed a wry sense of humour that was quite surprising when one wasn't prepared for it. He had never before felt even the tiniest inclination to befriend a mortal, but now he wasn't quite so sure anymore.

"I think I will make sure of it," he said in just the same solemn tone of voice. "The Angle isn't all that far away, after all."

"No, it isn't," Haldar agreed. "May the Valar watch over your path, Meneldir, until we meet again."

"And over yours, son of Baranor." Meneldir inclined his head with another smile. "_Namárië_."

He nodded at the two other elves and smoothly turned around, clearly trying to avoid the impression of fleeing while he could. He didn't quite succeed, but everybody was too busy or distracted to pay him much attention. Even Haldar only watched him go for a second or two before he returned his attention to the two elf lords in front of him, the faint smile that was on his face freezing and disappearing a moment later. Erestor recognised the signs of impending doom as well and cleared his throat, casting looks about him that looked almost panicky and not at all elf-lordly.

"I … I think I will be looking for Glorfindel. I'm sure he has to be around here somewhere. My lord," he nodded at Elrond before he turned to Haldar. "Master Ranger. I am sorry we could not help you."

"You did help us, my lord," Haldar protested. "You helped us eliminate a possibility. It isn't quite what I had hoped for, but it is far better than nothing."

Erestor gave him a quick smile that didn't look very genuine, gave Elrond a quick bow and made his escape. Elrond hardly seemed to notice his departure, his eyes fixed firmly on the human in front of him who did his very best not to fidget.

"I know that you are not to blame for my foster-son's decision," the half-elf finally said in a low tone of voice, still looking at the dark-haired man. "He is an adult and makes his own decisions, and if I suggested otherwise, I would insult his intelligence and maturity and your integrity."

Haldar nodded wordlessly. Elrond didn't know if the man thought there was nothing he could say or if he was too intimidated to open his mouth. The malicious part of him hoped the latter was the case.

"I understand his actions," he went on, choosing his words carefully and keeping his voice steady by sheer force of will. "He is your lord and captain, and his place is with his people. But you know as well as I do what risks and dangers he might face, far better than Estel does. His education has been thorough, also and especially in the history of the Dúnedain, but some things you can only learn the hard way: Through painful experience. And Estel is young still, even for one of your people."

"I … I know," Haldar said, his voice sounding uncommonly hoarse. Elrond's displeasure was obvious even despite his polite and diplomatic words. "I counselled him against this, my lord. He would not listen."

"I hadn't expected him to." Elrond shook his head. "He takes his duties very seriously and always has. But you know what might be waiting for him, what might be waiting for just this chance to capture or kill him, just as he does not. You are no subject of mine, Haldar, and I cannot order you to do anything. But I can beg you for something."

Haldar looked at him as if he couldn't quite believe his ears.  
"Whatever you wish, my lord. If it doesn't go against my captains' orders, consider it done and let us speak about it no more."

Elrond's stern face relaxed the tiniest bit, and he gave the man what, by a positive person, could have been called a smile.  
"Look after Estel," he went on in a quiet tone of voice that was almost too calm. "He wishes to help you, and sometimes regards his own safety not as important as he should. Send him back to me in one piece, that is all I ask."

Haldar looked almost insulted at the request.  
"He is my chieftain, my lord," he said coolly. "Of course I will. I would do so anyway, and you would never have to ask."

"Then I am content." Elrond nodded at him, trying not to let his relief show. "I thank you, Haldar. He is an adult, I am aware of that, but … well, he is also my son, no matter how old he is."

Haldar looked slightly disquieted, just as he always did when the elf lord called the boy his son, but he only nodded. He would have said more, but their attention was redirected when the object of their discussion entered the courtyard, trudging towards them with his saddle bag over one of his shoulders. The young man's other hand gripped a quiver and bow and his travelling cloak, and if the expression on his face was anything to go by, he wasn't in the least bit happy.

He looked, in fact, quite a bit like his father.

The young ranger looked up, his face brightening briefly when he saw his adopted father and Haldar, only to grow serious again when four tall figures suddenly barred his way, each of them carrying bags, saddlebags and quite a few weapons. Aragorn stopped almost in mid-step, displaying reflexes that did his training proud, seriousness turning into an unhappy scowl as he saw just who had so unexpectedly stepped into his way.

"I am already late, so I have no time for further discussions," he said to no one in particular, shooting an especially threatening _look_ at each of the four elves in front of him. "If you would let me pass, I would be most grateful. I believe you have told me everything that was on your mind."

"Not quite," Legolas shook his head. "Tell him, Celylith."

"Why do I have to be the one to talk to him?" the silver-haired elf inquired. His tone of voice sounded dangerously like a whine and, like Erestor's, not at all elf-lordly.

"Because you're the only one who hasn't behaved like a complete idiot," Legolas answered him willingly, earning firm nods from the twins who stood left and right of the other wood-elf. "Because he," the elven prince shot a quick look at his human friend who was pretending hard not to listen to any of this, "is less likely to cut you off before you can say more than a single sentence, and because I can make your life miserable if you don't."

"Ah yes, my liege. Because of _that_. Sometimes I really wonder why I don't defect and offer my services to Sauron," Celylith muttered under his breath. He raised his head again and smiled at Aragorn so brightly that the man had to blink. It was a bit like staring into the sun. "Estel, we are sorry. Or rather," he went on, ignoring a jab into his ribs that one of the twins aimed at him, "they are sorry. They didn't mean it the way it sounded. We will accompany you."

The young man stared at them, eyes cold and flinty, but there was a hint of amusement on his face that he couldn't hide completely.  
"They are not. If they could tie me to something in order to keep me safe, they would. And no, you will not."

"Of course we would!" Elladan exclaimed. "We are your brothers, your _older_ brothers. It's what we do."

"But we also understand why you think you have to do this," Elrohir interjected, clearly trying to take control of this conversation before it could deteriorate once more. "And while we might not completely agree with you, we understand that it is your right to make these decisions."

"I see." There was scepticism in the young man's voice, but a bit of the coldness in his eyes disappeared.

"We are sorry, Aragorn," Legolas spoke up as well. "We really are. I do not pretend to understand anything about visions or anything like that, but I know you, and I know that you would never risk your life in such a manner unless you thought that you had no other choice and that it was truly necessary. I did not mean to suggest otherwise."

"That is gratifying to hear," Aragorn said neutrally.

"He is right, _muindor_," Elladan said, looking at his human brother earnestly. "You were right; we overreacted. It's only that … that we have seen what the Dark Lord's agents do to the one He hunts, and you haven't. It is … hard … to put that behind us."

"We saw your father die, Estel," Elrohir continued his twin's train of thought. "We were right there with him, and we couldn't do anything to protect or save him. We do not wish to lose you the way we lost Arathorn."

"You won't." Aragorn shook his head, touched by the twins' words. "I will be careful, I promise. I just … I have to go."

"We understand." Elrohir nodded with a small smile. "We really do. We have had centuries to deal with visions and know how to interpret them – not as well as _ada_, but still well enough. Someone has to help you with them if they occur again."

"And I," Legolas interjected with a flourish, "will make sure that you don't get lost." He leaned forward until his lips were close to the man's ear, looking as conspiratorial as he could. "They are Noldor, you know. You can't trust them with something like this."

"I noticed," Aragorn said, now openly amused.

"Coming from a Teler, that's not very impressive," Elladan said dismissively. "You people can get lost in your own forests."

"And frequently do, if I'm not very much mistaken." His twin nodded his agreement.

"I have to protect you from this kind of indoctrination," Legolas went on, ignoring his friends' words. "Or they will noldorise you."

"'Noldorise'?" Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "That word doesn't even exist, neither in Common nor in Sindarin or Quenya."

"Well, it should." The elven prince was unperturbed. "Celylith and I will come with you to make sure that you receive a … broader education, especially concerning the elvish tribes. Ilúvatar only knows what they have been teaching you these twenty-one years."

"How to be a Noldo and therefore be more intelligent and skilled than our Silvan brethren?" Elrohir offered.

"Very funny," the fair-haired elf said dismissively, not even turning around to look at the twins. "You forgot the Vanyar."

"Oh, I'm not that megalomaniac yet." The younger twin shook his head. "Besides, Glorfindel would kill me. He can get a bit sensitive about things like that."

"Coward."

"I have lived with him for nearly three thousand years," Elrohir said calmly. "I know better than to anger him needlessly. Actually, I know better than to anger him, period."

"That is all very nice, but could we please return to more pressing things?" Aragorn interjected. "Like you wanting to accompany me. Who says that I will let you?"

"No one," Elladan admitted. "But you are a generous person, dear brother, too generous to reject an honest apology. And besides, you know that we would follow you anyway."

"True." Aragorn inclined his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're stubborn like that."

"Excuse me, my lord," Celylith addressed Legolas, clearly intent on leading this conversation back to the truly important questions. "But as much as I like Estel – and I do," he emphasised, looking at the young man with earnest dark-blue eyes, "I can't accompany you. I have … responsibilities here."

"Lúthien." Aragorn grinned at him. "Of course, what would happen to the poor little bat?"

"She will learn how to be a real bat on her own, like any normal bat does," Legolas said uncompromisingly, shooting his childhood friend a look that didn't look all that friendly at all. "Because there is no way, absolutely no way at all, that she'll come with us."

"That is hardly fair!" Celylith looked and sounded absolutely outraged. "'Normal' bats have their families to help them adjust to … well, being bats. They can show them how to hunt and where to sleep and things like that. Lúthien has no one but me."

"Tragic." Clearly enough, Legolas was not moved by the other elf's words or the pleading look on his face. "It is not coming with us, and that is final."

"She!"

"Not now, Celylith."

"My lord…"

"No, Captain."

Celylith shut his mouth with a small snap. Things were serious when Legolas addressed him with his rank, mostly serious enough so that he knew better than to protest any further. Elladan's eyes wandered from one wood-elf to the other, his eyebrows raised incredulously.

"And you fear that _we_ would ruin Estel's education?"

"No matter," Aragorn hurriedly interjected, clearly fearing what another bout of Noldor-vs.-Wood-elves/Teleri would do to his patience and self-control. "If I let you accompany us," he shot a sharp look at his brothers and Legolas, "will you promise me not to torture Haldar any more than you have to and not treat me as if you were mother hens and I was a chick that had fallen out of the nest?"

The three elves in front of him exchanged a quick look. Celylith didn't look at anybody and sulked instead.  
"Yes," Elladan finally answered for all of them.

"Define 'torture Haldar no more than we have to'," Legolas said thoughtfully. Two elbows made contact with his ribs and the wood-elf winced. "It was a joke. Of course we promise."

Aragorn looked at the three of them for a long while before he finally nodded slowly. The unhappiness in his eyes had faded and had been replaced by something that looked suspiciously like relief.  
"Very well, then. I know that you would stalk us if I didn't allow it, and I wouldn't want to frighten Haldar anymore than he already is."

"I would prefer to call it 'following at a distance'," Elrohir informed him primly.

The young ranger only smiled at them widely and gestured at them to precede him. The twins returned the smile and complied, Elrohir whispering to his twin that he had told him that everything would turn out for the best if he only kept his mouth shut, and Legolas glared at Celylith until he, too, began to move into the direction of the horses. There was a faintly mutinous expression on his face, and whatever _he_ was muttering under his breath wasn't complimentary in the slightest.

Waiting until Celylith had passed him, Aragorn looked at his Silvan friend and raised both eyebrow, a mischievous smile on his face.  
"'Noldorise'?"

The elf returned the smile and shrugged.  
"It's a word."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is. I am far older and wiser than you, youngling. I have to know."

Aragorn only snorted and shook his head and was about to hurry up in order to catch up with his brothers and Celylith who were talking to his father (well, the twins were talking, Celylith was still pouting), but Legolas' hand that closed around his upper arm halted him in his tracks.

"Forgive me?" the fair-haired elf asked softly.

"For what?" Aragorn gave him a faint smile. "You said what you thought was right. You are uncomfortable with the visions, just as I am, and I understand that. You were trying to protect me – something that, while it annoys me, I can appreciate."

"I do not understand the visions, Aragorn," Legolas corrected him. "I do not understand what is happening to you when you have them, I do not understand how I can help you, and that frightens me. But that is not what I wish to apologise for. I doubted you, your reasoning and your abilities, and for that I am sorry."

Aragorn opened his mouth to say that there was nothing to forgive, but closed it again with another small smile when he saw the seriousness in his friend's eyes.   
"Worry not, _mellon nín_," he said, reaching up and briefly covering the elf's slender fingers with his own. "It is forgiven."

Legolas returned the smile and nodded, and they went to join Celylith and the twins to say their farewell to Lord Elrond. The sun was just starting to dip lower when six riders crossed the bridge of the Last Homely House and chose the path heading south. 

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TBC...**

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_ada (Sindarin) - father (daddy)  
muindor (S.) - brother (by birth)  
tark (Black Speech) - Man of Gondor/of Númenórean heritage  
pushdug (B. S.) - "dungfilth"  
orch (S.) - orc, goblin  
Glamhoth (S.) - 'Noisy horde', Orcs  
Pen-faer vûl i Goth Fuiannen (S.) - "Soul-less slave of the Abhorred Enemy"  
móradan (S.) - 'Man of Darkness', technically one of the Edain of the East who fell under the dominion of Morgoth in the First Age. Not a very friendly term for any man, especially for an adan.  
harucholor (S.) - 'wound-closer', a healing herb  
losdalas (S.) - 'sleep-leaf', a healing herb with anaesthetic properties  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
Yestarë (Quenya) - 'First-day', the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March  
Edain (S.) - Humans, Men, especially those of the Three Houses of the Edain  
dúnadan (pl.: dúnedain) (S.) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
Namárië (Q.) - Farewell _

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Whee, that's quite a few translations this time. And trilingual, too! That's new... Ah well, I always enjoyed Black Speech, yet more proof that I'm mad as a hatter. •g• So, in the next chapter we see how Aragorn's Fabulous Idea© actually works out and how the twins and Legolas get along with Haldar. The answer to both questions is, unsurprisingly enough, 'Not very well'. Oh, and Aragorn finds out that waking up after a nightmare is sometimes more trouble than it's worth, because, sometimes, things are waiting for you to do so. What the heck I'm talking about? You'll have to wait and see... Update-wise we're back on track, so if my laptop doesn't die on me, too, the next chapter should be here in a week. Don't forget to review; see you then!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**Apologies to Tatsumaki-sama, Clone Trooper (no, I won't stop!), Darkangel-Jessie, Kuramagal, Mirwen Sunrider and Amisara for not including them in the review responses to which I reply by group email. Remember to either make sure you have a working email address listed on your profile page or, if you prefer to review anonymously, to leave me an address there. Sorry for the inconvenience!**

**Huge, extra-special apologies to Yeade, to whose review I cannot reply because I didn't manage to copy my inbox. It's still stuck on my other hard drive with all my other emails. That idea about reviewing in review form might not be the worst idea till I get my computer back... •hugs• So, sorry!**


	9. Fighting Shadows

**Disclaimer**: For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Gods, I actually managed to update on time! I know, I know, no one would have believed it... •g• Having said that: About the NEXT update... •ducks swords, knives and assorted sharp objects• Let me finish! It's coming, don't worry, but it might be a little late. A friend of mine whom I haven't seen for a year (quite precisely a year, actually) is coming to visit me on Sunday, and neither I nor she know yet how long she'll stay. Probably till the weekend, so I guess I won't have much time before that. No, let me correct myself: I am absolutely sure that I won't have time to do anything before that, especially considering that it very well might be another year before I see her again. So, I ask for your forgiveness and patience. I'll update as quickly as I can, I promise you that.**

**What else? Oh yes, Lúthien. It's nice to see that all of you like her so much (I'm not sure Legolas would agree, though). Don't worry, she's actually in this chapter, and unless Legolas finds out about Celylith's idiocy, as he would call it, she should be fine. And I have to agree: The villain isn't particularly nice - but then again, he's the VILLAIN. He's not supposed be nice, it's kind of part of his job description to be mean. •pats his head, er, hood• I still like him.**

**All right, enough of that. Here's the next part - Jeez, is this chapter 9 already? -, the one for which Haldar hasn't really waited with baited breath since he get to have a little chat with Legolas and the twins. Aragorn talks to Celylith and they're being joined by a surprise guest, and Aragorn ... well. Let me put it this way: He's not having such a great night. Oh, and we learn that lighting fires in the middle of nowhere is generally a bad idea. You can trust me on that. •g•**

**Enjoy and review, please!**

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Chapter 9

Two days later, Haldar was beginning to doubt his own sanity. He was an honest man, though, not to mention fair, and so he was also beginning to doubt the sanity of several other people, most prominently that of Lord Elladan, Elrohir and the son of Thranduil.

To be perfectly, _completely_ honest, he also doubted the sanity of Prince Legolas' companion, but that was more because he was lugging around a bat in a bag and apparently expected the rest of them not to notice it.

He had always been told that the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood were a strange lot, but he hadn't really expected said fact to be so easily apparent. He might be biased, of course, since he – like all rangers – had contact almost exclusively with the Elves of Rivendell who weren't exactly known for being objective when it came to their Silvan brethren, but he honestly didn't believe so. Prince Legolas was acting as if he hadn't only courted his only sister but had also tried to elope with her in order to taint her honour as thoroughly as he could, and Captain Celylith was quite clearly at least mildly insane.

Prince Legolas didn't have a sister. He had checked, just to make completely sure.

And the twins … well, they were another story entirely. For one, they did have a sister as far as he knew, but even if she didn't live in Lothlórien (or so the rumour said), he wouldn't even have thought of coming within a hundred feet of her. She was Lord Elrond's daughter, after all, and there were better ways to commit suicide than having an enraged elf lord tear you into more manageable pieces.

It wasn't that he didn't understand them. Of course he did; he was neither stupid nor so self-centred that he missed the aura of faint, almost undetectable fear and worry that hung over the two dark-haired elves. It was only the proverbial elven calmness and composure, he guessed, that prevented the two of them from fidgeting all the time. It was more than understandable; he would have felt the same if it had been _his_ brother who had so suddenly been placed in danger.

But that was the problem, wasn't it, Haldar mused almost sarcastically while he slowly and carefully brushed his horse's gleaming brown coat, the steady, regular strokes soothing him almost as much as they soothed the horse. It wasn't his brother, because his brother was dead. He didn't need any confirmation; by now he was completely und utterly sure about it.

The ranger forcibly wrenched his thoughts away from that subject. It would do neither him nor anybody else any good if he wallowed in self-pity. He would grieve Belen in his own time, when all of this was over and the person responsible for it was dead.

Haldar smiled to himself. When the person responsible was very dead, and that was something he would see to personally and with great enjoyment.

He would have continued with that line of thought if a sudden awareness had not washed over him, feeling disconcertingly like being dunked into a half-frozen pond in mid-winter. There was something or someone here with him, watching him, watching him in fact so intensely that he felt a little like something on display. Even though he knew that the campsite was secure – the elves had crawled around the little glade for nigh two hours before reluctantly proclaiming their surroundings safe – Haldar slowly and inconspicuously moved his left hand to his belt and grasped the hilt of his dagger. He wasn't by nature an overly distrustful person (well, no more than the average ranger, he guessed), but he was also very much not stupid. Something was out there killing his people, and he was rather sure that most of them had been in a similar situation sometime not too long before they had been overtaken by whatever 'it' was.

His brother might have been in a similar situation.

All his suspicions were dispelled a few moments later when a small sound could be heard, sounding like a mixture between a smothered laugh and a cough. Haldar sighed almost inaudibly and released the handle of his knife, giving his horse a few more strokes. He very much doubted that whoever was behind his entire colossal mess would laugh at his victims before hitting them over the head.

Those damned elves really had to find themselves a new hobby; creeping up on unsuspecting mortals just couldn't be all that wonderful and exciting.

After a sufficient amount of time had passed to signal that he really wasn't all that interested in his new companions, Haldar put the horse brush back into the side-pocket of one of his saddle bags, gave his horse a quick pat and turned around. His face was as expressionless as he could make it, and still he almost openly rolled his eyes when he nearly came face to face with three elves who didn't even look as if they were trying to fully hide their amusement.

"My lords," he said with (in his eyes) superhuman patience and waited.

The three of them exchanged a look that was too quick to be readable and moved forward as one, the two dark-haired ones circling him the tiniest bit in a way that reminded the ranger eerily of hungry wolves closing in on their prey. What perturbed him maybe even more than the silence of Lord Elrond's twin sons was the smile Prince Legolas was wearing, a smile that was almost bright enough to lighten the gloom of the night. It was, Haldar mused, exactly the kind of smile that Annatar must have worn when he had turned up in Eregion all those centuries ago.

"Haldar." The elven prince's smile widened even more. Haldar found that he couldn't move, not unlike a rabbit suddenly finding itself faced with a large snake. "I hope we are not disturbing you?"

Haldar very much doubted that either the prince or the other two elves cared at all if they disturbed him or not, but diplomacy was diplomacy.  
"No, your Highness. Not at all."

"Good!" That smile widened even more, something Haldar would have sworn upon his soul was impossible. "Good! Celylith is preparing dinner with Estel, so we'd thought we would have a little chat with you."

So this was how this was going to be, the man thought tiredly. The insane one kept the boy busy so these three could … what? Interrogate him? He looked at the elves around him calmly, scanning their faces slowly and unhurriedly for anything that might give away their intentions. The small fire he had lit half an hour or so ago was too well shielded and too far away to illuminate his surroundings sufficiently, but his eyes had got used to the darkness and he could see quite clearly. Not as clearly as the elves, though, of course, but clearly enough to see that they looked as inscrutable as ever.

Haldar shot a quick look over his shoulder, hoping to see his horse, but the bay had already wandered off to join the elven horses. Elves did not hobble their steeds and so he had not either, knowing that his horse would never wander off if its companions did not. It was a choice he was beginning to regret.

"I am at your disposal, my lords," he said in the tone of voice of a man who had seen his (unfavourable) future and had fatalistically accepted it.

"Wonderful," one of the twins said, his voice cool and as emotionless as his face. Haldar wasn't sure which one he was; he had trouble telling them apart during the day and right now they might as well have worn hoods over their heads. In the faint moonlight, they looked exactly the same and far too much like Lord Elrond. "Don't worry about the others. Even they shouldn't let the rabbits burn – too badly, that is."

"Estel's a decent cook." The other dark-haired elf nodded. "Celylith, however, might be a little bit too … distracted … to concentrate."

Prince Legolas' furrowed brow could be seen even in the darkness.  
"What? Why should he be distracted, Elladan?"

Elladan – just why couldn't the two of them at least dress differently, Haldar asked himself – shrugged quickly and gave his brother a quick look. A second later his grey eyes wandered over to lock with Haldar's, and for a second the man actually felt as if he was part of his little group.

"Oh, no reason, my friend."

Haldar looked at the dark-haired elf through lowered lashes and had to hide a smile at the innocence that fairly radiated off Lord Elrond's oldest son. It had become an unspoken agreement not to mention the whole bat-in-a-bag thing to Prince Legolas, who seemed to be the only one oblivious to it. Haldar doubted that it was because the fair-haired elf was naïve; it was probably more a case of not wanting to know. The rest of them had unanimously and silently decided that it was best not to talk about it, which was probably for the best of all involved. He didn't know the prince all that well, but he very much doubted that it would be a pretty sight when he truly lost his temper.

Valar, whom was he kidding? He was King Thranduil's son; to say that it wouldn't be a pretty sight was more or less like saying that everybody had got a little wet when Númenor had sunk beneath the waves.

Prince Legolas didn't say anything to that and only grumbled something under his breath that didn't sound as if he really believed a single word that had just been said. Haldar waited patiently for one of them to say something, and when it became apparent that they wouldn't, he ground his teeth. Normally, he would wait for them to tell him what they wanted – if they ambushed him like this, they would have to go ahead and tell him what they wanted from him –, but tonight was an exception. It was late, he was hungry and in a reasonably bad mood, and the last thing he wanted or needed was standing in a forest all night long, waiting for three elves to make up their minds.

Having principles was nice enough, but tonight they couldn't rival a warm meal and his bedroll.

"And how can I help you, my lords?" he asked, debating if he should sit down on a log or something like that. He decided against it after a second; he didn't think that he would need to run away from them, but you could never be too careful.

The dark-haired elves took a step closer simultaneously, leaving Haldar to wonder if they practised things like that or if they came naturally to twins.  
"I think you know that, Master Ranger," one of them said. Elrohir, or was it Elladan? Haldar didn't know and was fast approaching the point when he would cease caring.

Haldar made a quick grab for that superhuman patience that was beginning to desert him and sighed.  
"No, my lord, I do not know. Forgive me for saying so, but I am tired, hungry and have no patience at all for games or vague questions. If you have something to say to me, then say it."

The three elves exchanged a quick look, and Haldar felt an almost embarrassingly keen pleasure at having surprised them, and may it only have been in such a small matter. Whatever it was that they had silently communicated to each other, they seemed to have reached a conclusion, for one of the twins – Elrohir, he was almost sure about it – nodded, clearly taking over the conversation.

"Very well, Master Ranger. We…"

"Haldar."

"Excuse me?" A dark eyebrow was raised, only to be joined a second later by an almost identical and a blond one. Even though Haldar was in no mood to be generous right now, he had to admit that the synchronisation was impressive.

"My name," Haldar said, fighting down a not completely irrational surge of anger, "is Haldar. At most, I will accept 'son of Baranor'. Not '_dúnadan_', not 'Master Ranger' and not 'strange, annoying little human who appeared out of nowhere and is dragging off my little brother to get him killed'."

"We never called you 'strange, annoying little human who appeared out of nowhere and is dragging off my little brother to get him killed'," Elladan said, shaking his head.

"You might as well have." Haldar refused to back down.

The dark-haired twin shook his head again, grudging respect in his eyes. It was clear that there weren't many people – and even less humans – who were brave (or stupid) enough to talk to them in such a way. A day ago, Haldar might have been at least a little bit content about something like this, but right now he simply didn't care.

"Very well," the twin said, grey eyes fixed unwaveringly on the ranger. "I will be honest with you, _Haldar_. We are worried. Very worried."

"You are not the only one, my lord," Haldar said, trying to return some measure of civility to this conversation. "I am as well. You have ridden with us often enough to know that my captain will _not_ be happy to see all of you arrive with me."

"Oh?" Prince Legolas said. "And why is that? Because of us?"

"Oh, no, not because of you, your Highness." Haldar shook his head. "The Rangers would never turn away the help of warriors of your calibre."

"Why then?"

"Because I am knowingly bringing the Heir of Isildur into a situation like this," the ranger said bluntly. "Because instead of protecting our lord as I should, I allow him to place himself in danger. My captain is a stern man and not given to leniency. He will _not_ be pleased with me."

"At least in this question we agree," the other twin said in a tone of voice that was far too calm to be anything but close to screaming with frustration. "We do not blame you for any of this, Haldar. We realise that Estel can make his own decisions – and frequently does so, too."

"He can be persuasive, too," his brother added. "If Estel truly wants to do something, he does it and no one and nothing but an orc invasion or a couple of enraged elf lords can stop him." He stopped for a moment and gave Haldar a long look. "The only question is, why didn't you even try to?"

Haldar gave him a look that somewhere between incredulity and distaste.  
"He is my lord."

He didn't say more, nor would he have had to. The three elves didn't even look at each other and yet they still managed to nod fractionally at the same time. It had apparently been the right thing to say.

"Good," was all that Prince Legolas said, giving him the tiniest hint of a smile. "That is one thing less we have to discuss. We will be arriving at your camp in … what, three days?"

"Approximately, yes," Haldar agreed with a nod, trying hard to keep his suspicions at bay. "Barring any complications, weather changes or ambushes, that is."

"Are you always so positive?"

"I am a ranger, your Highness," the man said with a small, strained smile. "If you still are a positive man at the beginning of your training, you aren't at the end of your second year in the field." He gave the fair-haired elf a long look. "But I think you know what I am talking about, my lord."

The elven prince merely inclined his head soundlessly. Mirkwood wasn't the safest of places on _Ennor_, hadn't even been when the Shadow had not yet lengthened, and the Elves of the Wood were constantly fighting for their lives and the safety of their home. If there was an elf in Middle-earth who would understand the dangers the Rangers faced on a daily basis, it would be one of Thranduil's people.

"I do indeed," Prince Legolas said. "Let me be frank then, Haldar. When we arrive at our destination, we would like you to remember that Estel is _not_ Aragorn. He is Lord Elrond's adopted son who has joined his dead parents' people for a season or two and to hunt orcs with his foster-brothers."

Haldar gave him a cold stare, inwardly asking himself just how stupid the elf thought him to be.  
"I am not a moron, Master Elf. Only the captains know about his true identity. If you think I would publicly announce who he was the minute we reached camp, I have to ask myself if you think me to be sufficiently intelligent to put on my boots all by myself."

The twins exchanged a quick look. Haldar almost groaned. He had _known_ they had been thinking things like that!

A smile ghosted over the prince's features, but he remained serious.  
"That thought hadn't even crossed my mind." Haldar almost snorted. 'Not your mind maybe, but definitely your friends'.' "I would also be thankful if you wouldn't advertise who I was. I will be using my own name, so if people know it they will know who I am, but I would rather not call attention to my parentage. I believe it would be … unwise … in this particular situation and might make people only nervous."

"I am not one to _advertise_ anything, my lord," Haldar said, idly asking himself if the elf was trying to be nonchalantly offensive or if it was just happening.

"And I never thought that you were," Prince Legolas said, sighing softly and looking the tiniest bit exasperated. Haldar suddenly realised that the elf didn't like this whole conversation any better than he did. "I am simply advising caution. There is no telling what would happen if the ones responsible thought themselves threatened by my presence, if they would think that Mirkwood – as well as Rivendell – had decided to intervene. It might provoke them to further violence and might put Estel at risk, even if it is not known who he is."

"And all of you, my lord," the ranger said pointedly.

"Oh, aye," the blond prince shrugged, nonchalance on his face as he contemplated such a possibility. "But, if you'll excuse me for saying so, Master Ranger, we are elves. Our experience and senses serve us well. Estel, on the other hand, is young still."

'And he would probably have a fit if he knew you were saying these things about him,' Haldar thought to himself. There was nothing to it, however; the prince was right.

"He is young, even for one of my people," he agreed. "That might turn out to be to our advantage, however. With twenty-three, you are almost considered too young to join the companies, but not so young that you would call attention to yourself. If there is someone watching us, he will pay little attention to one so young and dismiss him as unimportant, for no one that young would be trusted with such a secret as this one."

"If you are right and someone is indeed looking for Isildur's Heir," one of the twins said, saying something for the first time in minutes.

"If we are right, yes," Haldar admitted readily. "I still pray to the Valar that we are not, but I do not think we are that lucky. Still, he looks almost younger than he is, and hardly anybody would suspect that he is who he is, especially no outsider."

"And why would they?" the other twin – Elladan? – said in a silky tone of voice. "No one would think one of my uncle's heirs to be stupid enough to just jump into a situation like this, now would they?"

"Elrohir," his brother admonished him and shook his head. Curses, Haldar thought darkly, but he would never be able to tell the two of them apart!

"It's true, and you know it," the thus chastised elf protested.

The honest worry in his voice was hard to overhear even despite the annoyance, and Haldar felt how he relaxed a little. Sometimes it was hard to remember with them being elves and so bloody annoying, but they were really just worried for their brother. That was something he could relate to and understand so well.

"I am not your enemy, my lords," he said softly and raised his head to look the three elves in the eye. "I swear to the One that I am not. I know that you might not see it like that at the moment, but we have the same goals. I would give my live for the son of Arathorn and would never do or say anything that might endanger him or cause him harm. If you believe nothing else about me, believe this."

"That is one thing about you I have never doubted," Lord Elrohir said, and to his mild surprise, Haldar could only detect deep sincerity in his voice. "I am glad we understand each other, Haldar. We know that you would never do anything to harm Aragorn. But you must understand our position as well. He is our brother and Prince Legolas' friend. We are worried about him, and if that worry has in any way made things … difficult … for you, we apologise."

Spoken like a true diplomat, Haldar thought to himself wryly. Maybe he should try to keep the twins apart by what they said, not by what they looked like. But if they made such an effort to be polite, maybe – just maybe – this might actually work in some way or other. He respected all of them deeply and knew of their accomplishments, but they were also infuriating and so very, very … elven.

To be perfectly honest, he didn't know how the boy could stand them for a prolonged amount of time.

Still, if they tried to be civil, he would be civil as well. Besides, he could smile in as fake a manner as anybody – that was why he had been sent, after all.

"No need to apologise, my lord," he said with a smile that should rightly have lit up the entire glade. "I took no offence."

Prince Legolas returned the smile, even though his was quite a bit brighter still. Haldar was actually rather impressed; he hadn't known anybody could smile smiles that were that much faker than his.

"I am sure you didn't," the elf said. "Thank you for your time, then. We will see you at dinner."

With another smile – not quite as bright as the first one – and a nod he turned around and left. There was no sound at all to mark his passing, and Haldar realised that he would probably have to accept that they could creep up on anybody. They simply didn't make any sounds when they moved, and probably couldn't even help it.

And they were bloody fast, too, he added a second later when a tall figure suddenly appeared in front of him. It was the older twin, he was almost sure about it, and he wasn't looking very happy. The other two elves had disappeared, the man noticed; they'd probably read the signs correctly and had escaped while they still could.

"Is there something else, my lord?" he asked, almost surprised at his own audacity.

"Yes, indeed there is," the twin said with a smile that didn't look at all like the one Prince Legolas had given him only seconds ago. It looked more like the smile a hobbit would have smiled upon spotting a juicy mushroom. He took a step closer to the ranger who needed to employ all the self-restraint he had not to back away, deliberately invading his personal space. "One more thing, actually."

"Y…yes?" Haldar asked, immediately cursing himself for allowing his voice to waver.

"You should tread very carefully, Haldar. If anything happens to my … to Aragorn, anything that might have been prevented on your part or that of your men, I will hold you personally accountable."

Haldar would have liked to glare at the taller being, but his eyes simply didn't seem to work properly.  
"I told you I would die for Lord Aragorn, my lord. Are you implying that I was telling a lie?"

"I am implying no such thing, dúnadan," Elladan said, shaking his head. He was still looking completely relaxed and at ease, which was probably worse than any fierce grimace would have been. "You are kin, and that counts for a lot with me and my family. Still, there is a difference between us."

"And which difference would that be?" Haldar asked, torn between indignation and faint fear he wouldn't even acknowledge to himself.

"You would die for him because he is your lord, your captain and your responsibility. He is the future of your people and may be the last hope for all of us, and that is why you would sacrifice yourself for him. My brother, my friends and I, however, would do it because we know him and love him, and because the alternative would be unthinkable. Do not ever assume that I would forget this."

Haldar swallowed convulsively and nodded, fighting to tear his eyes away from that terrible, friendly look on the elf's face.  
"I hear your words, my lord, and I will remember them."

"I hope so, Haldar," the twin said, his voice completely even and composed. "As I said, you are kin from afar and I respect you. I respect your abilities and what you stand for and would never question or threaten either … but if my brother comes to harm because of you, I will have my satisfaction."

With a smile that looked a little more like a baring of teeth, the young elf lord turned around and disappeared between the trees as soundlessly as the other two had only minutes ago. Haldar only closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart and bring order into his thoughts.

That had most definitely been the most threatening non-threat he had ever heard.  
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A little earlier, Aragorn was sitting in front of the campfire, preparing the rabbits and cataloguing the foulest, most inventive curses he knew. Considering that he had grown up among centuries-old, multilingual warriors who, if annoyed and at a suitable distance from his foster-father, Erestor or anybody else who might take offence at such language, could use colourful and highly descriptive curses, he knew quite a lot of them.

It wasn't so much that his brothers and Legolas just left the camp without telling him where they went. They were adults and more than entitled to their own decisions – besides, what more than a hypocrite would he be if he treated them like children and demanded that they tell him where they went and what they did?

No, what really annoyed him was that they had left and apparently truly expected him not to know what they were up to. The young man snorted. How should he not know, especially when they left just after Haldar had left to groom his horse. How stupid did they think him to be? When he had allowed them to come with them, this really hadn't been what he'd had in mind – then again, he should have known something like this would be the end result and…

"Uhm, Estel … I hate to say this to you, but I think that rabbit is dead."

…but the most annoying thing of all was maybe that they left Celylith here to keep an eye on him. Oh, they hadn't said so, of course, but he knew how to read between the lines, so to say. Aragorn rolled his eyes and wiped his knife on a rag. Celylith! Not that he had anything against the wood-elf – quite the opposite, in fact –, but he couldn't even keep track of a bat!

"Thank you for that information, Celylith," he said testily as he took a handful of herbs he had prepared earlier and began stuffing their dinner with them with more force than strictly necessary. A twig of rosemary dropped to the ground, but he hardly noticed it. "And I hope so, because otherwise I think this rabbit might bite me."

"I can't say I would blame it," the elf retorted, laughter in his voice as he stepped into the circle of light that the fire cast, his arms full of dry branches. "I would definitely bite you if you were stuffing me with … what is that, rosemary?"

"Amongst other things, yes," Aragorn said, not looking at the other and continuing with his task. "And trust me, _mellon nín_, when I tell you that the thought of stuffing you with any kind of herb has never occurred to me."

"Ah, I'm not so sure about that…" Celylith grinned at him while he piled up the firewood next to the fire. "It's not that I don't trust you, but … well, you _are_ Elrohir's brother. If I am ever stuck somewhere for a longer amount of time, I would not want to be alone with him. If he doesn't get food regularly, he gets this … look."

Aragorn finished seasoning the meat and reached for the spit.  
"What look?"

"The 'I-am-assessing-your-nutritional-values look'."

Against his will, Aragorn had to laugh.  
"Unhappy as I am to say it, but I know what you mean. He's always been like this, at least to my knowledge. It is about the only thing where he truly differs from Elladan."

"Except for their personalities."

"Except for that, yes," Aragorn said and had to laugh again.

It could actually have been worse, he reasoned. Having Celylith here wasn't all that bad; Legolas would only sit next to him and would watch him with large eyes, as if he expected him to have another vision on the spot, and the twins would only glance at him repeatedly and would sigh and shake their heads at random intervals. In comparison to that, Celylith was downright cheerful and amusing.

"So, when will they be finished intimidating Haldar?" he asked in a conversational tone of voice as he positioned the spit on the forked branches left and right of the fireplace. "I hope they'll be finished by the time the rabbits are done. Then again, there is an advantage to all this: I doubt that Haldar will have much of an appetite after this, so I guess that means there will be more for us."

Celylith gave him a look that was so flat and clueless that it simply couldn't be anything but fake.  
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Estel. Legolas and your brothers simply wanted to…"

"…take a stroll around the camp, yes, I know," Aragorn finished his sentence with a rather sardonic smile. "To admire the _mute_ night birds and frolic in the pitch black forest."

Celylith looked torn between loyalty and amusement, but the latter finally won out and he smiled.  
"All right, you've got me, my friend. Just don't tell Legolas I told you."

"You didn't tell me, Celylith," Aragorn told him darkly and forced himself to let go of the spit. If he kept turning it round and round at this speed, their dinner would never cook at all. "I put two and two together, something Legolas and my dear brothers think me incapable of, it would seem."

"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" the elf asked mildly.

Aragorn was about to protest that it was anything but that, but then he actually took a deep breath and thought for a second.

"Yes," he admitted, reluctance on his face. "It is – a bit, that is. I know that they don't mean anything by it and only have my best interests in mind, but sometimes their overprotectiveness is simply driving me up the walls. Besides, they're scaring one of my people, and how would it look if our guide committed suicide before we even reached the camp?" Celylith only laughed at that and Aragorn gave him a scowl. "I am being serious, Celylith. Just when will they realise that I am an adult and will treat me accordingly?"

Celylith gave him a pitying look.  
"Forgive me for saying this, Estel, but I doubt that you will live that long."

"So do I, because I will surely go insane and jump off a cliff before I even turn eighty!" the man exclaimed. "I know they mean well, but…"

"I know," Celylith said with a nod. "I know how you feel. I don't have any brothers, but Legolas decided to make up for it. He is only a few years older than me and has apparently decided that is enough reason for him to act like my older brother."

"So do you, my friend," Aragorn told him with a smile. "You aren't always acting completely rationally when it comes to his safety and well-being."

"That is completely different." Celylith shook his head. "He is my prince. It is my responsibility to guard him with my life."

"Of course," the man retorted dryly. "And you would just leave him to rot in the middle of an orc camp if he weren't your prince, wouldn't you?"

"Well, I can't say I haven't been tempted in the past," Celylith said and grinned at him, sitting down opposite of him on a small log. His face turned serious as he looked at the man, whose own smile was slowly disappearing as well as he stared into the flames that flared up brightly every time a drop of fat dripped down into the fire. "What is truly on your mind, Estel? Is it them being overprotective? Because if it is, my best advice is ignoring them and bearing it with good grace. Apart from wringing their necks, there is little you can do to stop them." He frowned. "And if you killed my prince, I would have to kill you, and I really don't want to do that."

"That is good to hear."

"I mean it, my friend," Celylith said quietly. "Even though I have to admit that they are worse than usual this time."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed in a similar tone of voice. "They are, and that is what is wrong."

Celylith nodded his head, eyes calm and understanding and suddenly very midnight-blue.  
"You are as worried as they are, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," the young ranger said almost sharply. "I am no fool. If I weren't, I wouldn't be here, now would I?"

"I suppose not," Celylith agreed. He absent-mindedly stared at Aragorn's hands that were turning the spit once more, only to frown and tilt his head as the absence of something bright and sparkly registered in his mind. "Estel, where is your ring?"

Aragorn didn't answer immediately as he removed his hands from the spit and looked at his left hand. There was a white mark circling the base of his index finger that was even more noticeable now during the summer. After having worn a ring there almost every day for three years, his hand looked almost alien and simply wrong without it.

"I took it off," he said.

_The heat of the sun warmed the back of his neck, and Aragorn absent-mindedly raised a hand to rub at it. In front of him, Legolas stepped to the side to talk to Haldar (or most likely to exchange pleasantries with him while glaring at him), and he inwardly shook his head once more. It hadn't really surprised him that his friend and his brothers had apologised – they would have done far worse than that in order to be allowed to accompany him. He knew that he ought to feel gleeful or annoyed, but all he did feel was frightened._

_The twins were engrossed in an earnest conversation with Elvynd – who looked ecstatic that he wouldn't be asked to come with them as well –, which gave him just the opportunity he had been looking or. He took two quick steps forward and stopped at his father's side, giving him and Glorfindel (who had materialised out of nowhere as was his wont) a quick bow._

_"Glorfindel. If you don't mind, my lord, I would like to have a quick word with my father."_

_The golden-haired elf shot him a long look before he nodded and smoothly returned the bow.  
"But of course. My lord. Estel."_

_A second later he was gone, heading over to where Erestor was talking with Commander Meneldir, a glint in his eyes that Elrond did his best to ignore. It was usually better to ignore these kinds of glints; they usually signalled the beginning of an epic argument or some sort of fight he was better off not knowing about. Aragorn's eyes followed the elf for a second before he returned his gaze to his father. Without a word, he lightly placed his hand on the half-elf's forearm and led him a bit further to the right, into the shadow of one of the stable buildings._

_Elrond looked at him, something almost like hope in his eyes, and Aragorn had to smile.  
"I am sorry, _ada_, but I have not changed my mind."_

_Elrond returned the smile. It didn't look anymore genuine than his foster-son's.  
"I hadn't really expected you to. But one can hope."_

_"Please, _ada_," Aragorn said and shook his head. "Don't. I have to do this."_

"_I know that you think so, my son," Elrond retorted and reached out to grasp the young man's chin, tilting his face upwards until he could look him in the eye. "I will not try to change your mind – not because I don't want to, but because I know that it would be futile. You are stubborn, like your brothers."_

_"That would be the crow calling the raven black, wouldn't it?" Aragorn asked with a wobbly smile. He looked at his father, eyes large and very bright. "The twins want to come with me. Did they tell you?"_

_"Of course they did. Not that they would have had to – I knew they wouldn't let you leave on your own. They will be of great help to you, _ion nín_, if you will let them."_

"_When have I ever not?" the young man asked rhetorically with a small, quick smile. "It would take a force of nature to stop them when they are in a mood like this."_

_His smile wobbled and disappeared as quickly as sand blowing in the wind. He lowered his eyes and reached up with his right hand, his fingers closing around his father's hand that was still lingering close to his face, as if taking it away would acknowledge something terrible._

_"Here," he said, pressing something into Elrond's palm and closing the long fingers around it. "Keep this for me until I return."_

_Elrond frowned slightly and withdrew his hand, opening his fingers to scrutinise the small object. His features seemed to freeze when he saw the silver ring he had given his human son a little more than three years ago, the design with its two serpents and their emerald eyes unmistakable. He would recognise this particular heirloom of his brother's house anywhere, and he felt how a part of his heart froze and turned to ice._

_"This is yours, Estel," he said, his voice far calmer than he would have thought possible. "More than that. Is it who and what you are."_

_"Yes." Aragorn smiled at him a little shakily and reached out with a hand, his fingers gently touching the small piece of jewellery. "Yes, it is. And I cannot take it with me, not this time. I cannot hide my identity and at the same time advertise it to anyone who has eyes to see."_

_No matter how much he wanted to, Elrond couldn't find any fault with his son's reasoning.  
"Are you sure about this?"_

_"Very sure." Aragorn smiled that mirthless smile again. "I can't wear it and I wouldn't want to carry it with me where it could be discovered. I don't want to die because I was carrying something like this in my shirt pocket." This time, the smile was real. "It would be embarrassing."_

_Elrond didn't return the smile and only nodded, suddenly feeling as if someone had placed a great weight on his shoulders. His fingers closed around the ring one by one, blocking out the silvery gleam of the precious metal in the bright sunlight._

_"I will safeguard it for you, my son," he said, looking steadily at the young man in front of him. "It will be waiting for you when you return. And so will I."_

_Without really thinking, Aragorn reached out and covered his father's larger hand with both of his.  
"Thank you, _ada_," he said, his voice solemn and somewhat unsteady at the same time. "I _will _return. You know that, don't you?"_

_Elrond nodded, a small smile on his face.  
"Yes, _ion nín_. I do."_

_But there was doubt in his eyes when Aragorn turned around to ready his horse, and the smile disappeared as if it had never existed._

Aragorn raised his head and shrugged a little, and Celylith wisely refrained from asking any more questions about this particular subject. Realising that the wood-elf was still waiting for further explanations, Aragorn sighed and returned his attention to their dinner. It looked a little dark on that side, he decided, and absently poked the meat with his knife.

"I am simply … uneasy about the entire situation, Celylith. It's like a dark cloud that is hovering just out of reach and retreating every time I want to touch it. Not that I _want _to touch it." He shrugged helplessly. "I can't explain it any better, I am sorry."

"I think you explained it quite well," Celylith said.

"It's all right," Aragorn said with another shrug. "I know that my brothers feel the same way. It will get better once we can actually _do_ something. Right now, it's just like … like fighting shadows."

"Yes." Celylith frowned darkly. "And we all know how those things usually end."

"True." Aragorn lifted his head and suddenly grinned at him. "Especially when one is in _your_ company."

"I am sure Legolas has explained to you that all these things are merely coincidences."

"Well, he's tried," the man said. "He wasn't very convincing … why are you staring at me like that?"

Celylith was indeed staring at him. In fact, he was staring at his hair, and before either man or elf could say anything, Aragorn felt something soft and vaguely … leathery … touch his left shoulder and the side of his neck. It took him all the self-control he possessed not to panic and swat at whatever had taken up residence in his hair and on his shoulder.

"Tell me," he said slowly and very carefully, "that your abominable bat didn't just land on my shoulder."

Celylith got to his feet, made a soft, almost cooing sound that Aragorn would have loved to hurt him for, and took a step closer to the frozen ranger.  
"Oh, there you are, _pen-velui_. Have you had a nice evening?"

"I don't know which possibility I find more distressing: You calling me '_pen-velui_' or you calling it that."

"Don't move, Estel!" Celylith said sharply as he took another careful step forward. "You'll scare her!"

Lúthien didn't look overly scared, even though Aragorn couldn't see it. If anything, the little bat was clinging more fiercely to the ranger's shoulder, the two claws on top of the wings raking through his hair.

"Please tell me that those were not its … her claws," the bat's perch said with exquisite politeness.

"Don't be such a coward, Estel," Celylith said, making a gesture with the hand he hadn't extended towards his wayward pet. "Relax. She won't hurt you."

"Are you completely sure about that?" Aragorn snapped back, trying not to wince when the bat's claws tangled in the collar of his shirt. "I know you; you haven't even _thought_ about the possibility that this bat might be poisonous! It might have gotten lost on its ways back from Mirkwood! What if it carries horrible diseases and infects me with one of them? You have no idea what might happen to me if she bites me, admit it!"

"Well," Celylith admitted thoughtfully, "not really, no."

"Then don't you tell me to relax!"

Before the man could say more, Celylith's hand had shot out with impressive speed and had scooped up the little animal. Aragorn's breath rushed out of him with a hiss as one of the claws got caught in his hair, ripping a long strand right out of his scalp. As soon as the bat was gone, the man's hands came up to pat at his head, rubbing over the hurting spot.

"That hurt!" he exclaimed, turning his head to glare at the elf. "Would you please watch where you keep that thing!?"

"What did you expect me to do, keep her in the..." Celylith trailed off, a slight blush creeping up the sides of his face. "Uhm, she must have followed us from Rivendell."

"Celylith," Aragorn said with commendable patience, "we all know that you keep her in that little black bag."

"All of you?" the silver-haired elf asked faintly.

"Well, except maybe Legolas, but I would say that's more because he doesn't want to know," Aragorn told him and shrugged. After having made sure that everything was still where it belonged, he lowered his arms. "Do you always let her out at night?"

"Not … always," Celylith said evasively. Aragorn gave him the _look_, and one could almost see how he withered under it. "Yes. It would be cruel to keep her locked up all the time."

"If you don't want to see something truly cruel very soon, I would get … Lúthien … out of sight before Legolas returns," Aragorn told him. He remembered the rabbits just in time to prevent them from turning into little pieces of charcoal, turned the spit and returned his attention to the elf. "I think he would add her to tonight's menu."

Celylith looked from Aragorn to the spit to the little bat clinging to his forearm before he turned large, dark-blue eyes back on the young ranger.

"He wouldn't."

"Oh yes, he would," Aragorn said uncompromisingly. "Why did you bring her at all?"

"I couldn't leave her all alone in Rivendell!" Celylith said, looking at the ranger with appalled eyes. Aragorn wasn't completely sure about it, but it looked as if he was cradling his pet closer to his chest, as if he was afraid that a being that asked such clearly idiotic questions wouldn't be above hurting sweet little bats as well. "Who knows what could have happened to her?"

"The question of what could have happened to Rivendell has never crossed your mind, has it?"

Blue eyes blinked in consternation.  
"No."

"You are hopeless," Aragorn said very calmly. "You … Legolas!"

Aragorn had never seen anyone move so fast. One second, Celylith was holding his 'adorable, perfect little bat' like a mother might hold a newborn child, the next it had disappeared under his cloak whose owner had adopted the most innocent expression and posture imaginable. How Legolas, who entered the clearing a few seconds later, could not notice what was going on, Aragorn truly couldn't understand. It simply couldn't be anything but denial, he decided.

Aragorn looked his best friend and his brother who joined the two of them at the fire, one eyebrow raised mockingly.  
"So, how did you enjoy your little evening stroll?"

Legolas and Elrohir exchanged a quick look while Celylith was slowly inching backwards, into the direction of his bedroll and Lúthien's bag.

"It was wonderful!" Legolas said with a fake smile that Aragorn had seen far too many times and had come to fear almost as much as his father's _look_. "All those … interesting trees…"

"…and the flowers that one could almost see," Elrohir went on dreamily. "It was almost magical."

"I see," the young ranger said. "I wish I could have seen it."

"Ah, do not worry, _muindor nín_," Elrohir said and slipped an arm around him. "Next time, you can come with us."

Aragorn only smiled, didn't say anything and returned his attention to their dinner. A few minutes later Elladan entered the circle of light that the firelight cast, looking so patently innocent that Aragorn almost rolled his eyes. He was followed a bit later by Haldar who looked somewhat shaky and very pale, and Aragorn gave his fellow ranger a tight smile of support before he turned back to stare into the flickering flames.

Oh yes. This was going to be a long, long trip.  
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_It was a dream and it wasn't his, he knew that as well as he knew his own name. It had nothing to do with him and could not harm him physically, but that knowledge did little to reassure him. If anything, it made everything even worse._

_It was dark. He thought that it was fitting, somehow – if one was literally stuck in a nightmare, it should at least be dark. But it wasn't a darkness that was simply the absence of light; it was something entirely different, something **more**. It was more like a physical presence, like something dark and old and terrible that had laid itself over a room (if this was a room) and had smothered all the air and light so that only darkness in its purest form remained._

_It was something he had never, ever, wanted to experience. It made his skin crawl as if a hundred tiny bugs were covering his entire body, and every single hair covering the back of his neck stood on end simultaneously._

_Sudden fear stabbed through the very core of his being, a fear so sharp and nauseating that he would have gasped if he had any control at all over his body. It washed over him like a large wave, and he felt how his panic and confusion even increased. It wasn't his fear, he was almost entirely sure about it. But it also didn't feel as if it was someone else's fear, at least not exclusively. Even though he wasn't really here, he still was, and even though he knew that these feeling didn't really belong to him, they still did, in a way._

_He could have laughed if he hadn't been so completely terrified. That didn't even make sense in his own head._

_He was suddenly moving, spinning upwards in a way that made the nausea even increase. When the movement finally stopped, he found himself once again on solid ground, ground that felt cold and hard and utterly unforgiving under his feet. The darkness had not diminished even in the slightest, but it felt different now, more … enclosed, if that was the right word. He couldn't get a better sense of it; it was only an elusive feeling, and every time he tried to pinpoint it, it slipped through his fingers like so much water._

_It was silent for a while; it could have been anything between a minute to an hour to a week. He tried to concentrate, tried to tell himself to look for clues or anything else that might help him interpret all this, but there simply wasn't anything to see. Nothing but oppressive darkness that seemed to intensify with every breath he took, and soon his laboured, panicky breathing was the only thing he could hear._

_He had just begun to relax the tiniest bit – he really should have known better, he told himself a second later – when pain stabbed through his head, bringing him to his knees in an instant. It wasn't only pain – it was the worst agony he had ever experienced, agony that was so all-encompassing that he could actually feel his heart miss a beat._

_Fear, thick and cloying … anger and hatred that twisted themselves together into an inseparable entity that tainted and destroyed anything it touched … PainHopelessnessDarknessTerrorFireBloodyStar**Death**… Valar, make it stop, please make it all stop…_

_And suddenly it did. The echo of it all was still there, hovering just out of reach where he could not find it, not that he would have wanted to. No one and nothing would get him to reach out for this madness voluntarily._

_He opened his eyes, shakily trying to get back to his feet, but he never made it. The darkness wasn't gone; it had only changed a little, mixing with other things that made no sense at all. Suddenly there was fire, reaching for him with hungry fingers, and he couldn't stifle the cry of pain and alarm that left his lips at its icy touch. Icy? Fire shouldn't be icy, shouldn't be terrible and cold like this, it shouldn't, it shouldn't, it shouldn't…_

_From one second to the next, there was someone standing in front of him, someone dressed entirely in a black coat so dark that it was nearly impossible to distinguish from the darkness around him. The figure reached out for him with an arm swathed entirely in dark robes, hanging off the arm in heavy folds. Even though there was no contact at all, pain exploded inside of him that was almost enough to make him collapse once more. His entire body seemed to be on fire – and not the cold fire from earlier but "real" one, making him writhe in agony he couldn't contain._

_With the last of his strength, he raised his head to look his tormentor in the eye, and the other's head truly dipped as if he, too, was looking at him. He felt how his heart froze in his chest and his breath caught in his throat, and even the pain was not as important anymore._

_There was nothing in the hood that was looking down on him, nothing but more darkness and the kind of black despair that drove sane men to madness._

_And that was the point when the terror that held him in its icy grip lessened its hold enough for him to draw a breath and scream._**  
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"Hold him!"

"I would, if you would only … Morgoth's eyes, he hit me!"

"Serves you right," Legolas said savagely as he made a dash for his best friend's flailing arm, hair unbound and in complete disarray. "I'll get you for teaching him that uppercut … Elbereth! Look out!"

Elladan dove out of the way of an unfocussed blow that would have given him a splitting headache for at least two days. He barely saw how Elrohir grasped Aragorn's hand as he leaned forward, long hands that were absolutely _not _trembling cupping the thrashing man's face.

"Estel," he said in as good an imitation of their father's most no-nonsense voice as he could. "You are safe, Estel. You have to wake up."

If anything, the touch seemed to make matters worse. With something that was somewhere between a sob and a cry of terror the young man tried to escape the hands that held him down, and Elladan ground his teeth. Sudden light behind them that could only mean that Haldar had reignited the fire lit up the scenery, and Elladan couldn't help but feel a small stab of dread at the pallor of his human brother's face.

"Estel," he tried again, his voice as soothing and reassuring as he could make it as he switched to Sindarin. "Estel, listen to me. You are dreaming. It cannot hurt you. We are here; _nothing_ will hurt you. Wake up."

To his substantial surprise, Aragorn's eyes flew open. For a long moment it looked as if he wasn't aware of what was going on around him, his eyes wide and completely blank, but then Elladan's words seemed to register in his mind and he sank back with a barely muffled moan.

Elrohir and Legolas slowly released the young ranger's limbs and Elladan, too, withdrew his hands. For a second or two Aragorn just lay on his bedroll, breathing heavily, but then he opened his eyes once more.  
"Eru," he gasped, pressing a shaking hand to his forehead. "That was … unpleasant."

The three elves exchanged an exasperated look. That was one way of saying it – and a very understated one at that. After a rather strained dinner they had talked for a while before Haldar had announced that he would retire for the night. After the conversation they'd had earlier, it wasn't very surprising either. They had followed his example one by one after deciding who would take first watch, and it had looked like a perfectly normal night until a few minutes ago when they had awoken to find Aragorn in the throes of nightmare. Celylith, whose watch it had been at the time, had been the first to reach him, but he had quickly been pushed aside when the twins and Legolas reached his side.

"Are you all right?" Legolas asked, his hands still hovering over the young man's elbow. He looked almost as shaken as Aragorn.

"Fine," Aragorn answered curtly as he slowly sat up, clearly resisting the urge to hunch over. "I'm fine."

Elladan and Elrohir rolled their eyes in silent synchronisation. Behind them, Haldar took a step forward, one of his hands still on the hilt of his knife. While the elves – woken up from their slumber just as he – only looked slightly dishevelled, the man's hair stood very nearly on end, one of the buckles of his boots was open and his shirt was only half-buttoned.

"My lord?" he asked softly, looking at Aragorn as if he expected him to fall over and start having seizures any second now. "What…?"

"A dream, Haldar, nothing more," the younger man answered, a slight tremor in his voice that he couldn't hide completely. "It was nothing but a dream."

"Nonsense," Elladan said, narrowing his eyes at his foster-brother. "That was no mere dream, or I am a dwarf."

"_Suilad, nogoth_."

Elladan ignored his young brother's ill-timed attempt at humour and simply continued glaring at him.  
"You haven't had one for several nights now, haven't you? Or have you simply not been telling us?"

"Not for five days now," Aragorn said, giving in to the urge and shortly burrowing his face in his hands. "I … I had hoped they had stopped." He raised his head again and smiled self-deprecatingly. "I hadn't really thought so, though."

The twins exchanged a quick look. Judging from the wide-eyed looks on Legolas' and Haldar's faces, they had absolutely no idea what to say or do. Fortunately for them, the two of them had quite a lot of experience with visions and prophetic dreams, most of them personal.

"Come, Estel," Elrohir said, nudging Legolas slightly to get him to move to the side. "We'll make some tea for all of us, and when it has all settled a little, you can tell us what you saw."

"I … I don't know if I can describe…"

"My lord!"

The exclamation caused all of them to turn their heads to the left, just in time to see Celylith enter the circle of light that the fire cast. Even though no sound betrayed his passing and he looked as calm as always, it was clear that he was only one step away from running. If there was a way to skid to a halt in a dignified way, he did just that, stopping in front of Legolas with military precision and similar bearings.

"My lord," he repeated, shooting a quick glance at Aragorn and turning back to his prince when it became apparent that the young man was – relatively speaking – all right. "We are in trouble."

All signs of uncertainty disappered as the elven prince straightened his shoulders.  
"Report, Captain."

"While you were … looking after Estel, I thought I'd felt something and so I went to investigate," Celylith began. He gave Haldar a look the man couldn't immediately interpret and added, "Under normal circumstances I'd advise we retreat into the trees."

"Wolves?" Legolas asked immediately.

"Worse, my lord: Wargs." Silver hair gleamed in the flickering firelight as the elf quickly shook his head. "At least half a dozen, probably more. They're a minute away at the most."

The effect was instantaneous. Aragorn surged to his feet, his sword belt already half-fastened around his waist while the others rushed to their abandoned bedrolls to collect the rest of their weapons. Haldar was simultaneously buckling his sword belt and fastening the quiver on his back when he looked at Celylith, his eyes leaving Aragorn's quickly moving form for the fraction of a second.

"They are coming here?"

"Oh yes." The wood-elf nodded mirthlessly. "I didn't stay long enough for them to spot me, but they most certainly are."

A sudden howl rent the air, appearing even more dangerous and threatening in the darkness that surrounded their camp. It almost sounded like the call of a wolf, but it wasn't, and even the most inexperienced person would have known it. There was something more to it, a ferociousness and cruel hunger that dwarfed that of a wolf. A second later the feeling they had all been waiting for washed over them, a wave of choking, dark malice that seemed to lay itself over the entire clearing.

"Well," Elrohir said lightly as he thrust a knife into its sheath at his belt, "thinking about it now, lighting that fire might not have been the best of ideas."

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TBC...**

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_dúnadan - 'Man of the West', ranger  
Ennor - a late Sindarin form of 'Endor' (I just know I'm not the only one who's thinking Star Wars right now!), a name for Middle-earth  
mellon nín - my friend  
ada - father (daddy)  
ion nín - my son  
pen-velui - sweet one  
muindor nín - my brother (by blood)  
Suilad, nogoth - Greetings, dwarf_

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CLIFFY! •sighs deeply• Ah, do you have any idea how much I've missed writing cliffies? I'm really quite happy now, and so is my alter ego. Life is good. What will happen? Will they all get eaten by wargs, which means that the story would be over? I have to admit it was kind of tempting for a while... •g• So, as I said, the next chapter will be a little late, even though I promise no later than a week late. Meaning that the next chapter will be here in two weeks at the very latest. Sorry again for that. Reviews, though? Yes, please! •g•**

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**Additional A/N:**

**My apologies to Mirwen Sunrider, Darkangel-Jessie, Tatsumaki-sama and Kuramagal for not including them in my review responses. Make sure you have a valid email address on your profile page or, if you want to review anonymously, leave me an address then. Thanks, and sorry for the inconvenience! **


	10. Night Phantoms

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

I had the strangest trouble with my internet provider the last few days. First I thought it was down completely, and now it turns out that only I can't get to the stupid homepage. Perhaps I've caught a virus? I'll have to scan my hard drive... It was really creepy. Everything else worked, only that one page didn't. It really is time to order new computer parts - my laptop is driving me crazy!

All right, so here I am again. My friend's gone now, and we had a great time. The weather was very nice and so I showed her around a bit, even though I had to do stuff for one of my archaeology classes. We went into the depot for one of the big museums to locate the exhibits for the exhibition we're planning (and let me tell you, it's nothing short of a miracle that anybody can find anything down there!). It was very interesting, even though I have to admit that I was a tiny bit disappointed. I expected a bit more Indiana Jones flair, but there were no torches, no snakes, not even a trapdoor or an X anywhere! •g• J/k. It was fun. Anyway, since it's almost Easter and I have to write another of my huge paper/essay/presentation thingies in the next two weeks, the next update won't be here next week, but the week after that. Okay? I'm sorry, but I'm just so busy at the moment and couldn't really get any work done while my friend was here.

So, that's that. Where were we? Let's see ... ah, yes, THERE. Gods, I love cliffies. •evil grin• I realise that you don't, at least not as much, so I'll shut up and get this over with. Several people almost get eaten, Haldar gets a scare, Legolas gets one too, Aragorn gets admonished, an orc gets a new scimitar and the bad guy gets to make another appearance. Understood? No? Ah, don't worry about it. Me neither.

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 10

Dagger, dagger, dagger … Eru damn it all, where was his dagger? He was sure, completely and utterly sure that he had put it right next to his bedroll – or had it been right next to his sword?

Aragorn shook his head, his thoughts racing even while he tried to put on his coat, damned himself for not bringing his leather overcoat that would have offered him far more protection, closed an errant buckle and fumbled for his bow. Dark memories of anger and terror and agony rose inside of him, already beginning to fade now that a new surge of adrenalin was pumping through his body, and he hurriedly pushed them aside. The last thing he needed now was to allow himself to get distracted by his nightmare. Besides, he had the very distinct feeling that the one he'd had a few minutes ago would soon be replaced by a brand-new one.

He managed to close the buckle on his boot, shouldered his bow and decided to give up on the cloak. It wouldn't protect him much anyway, not from the claws of a warg. He straightened up again and gave his companions a quick look. They were in the last stages of preparation as well, and he whirled around, his eyes searching for the long, curved dagger his brothers had brought back with them from a visit to Lothlórien as a present when he had been younger. It wasn't that he really _needed_ it in the strictest sense of the word, but, well, it had served him well many times in the past, and he…

"Looking for this?"

He looked up with a small smile that didn't seem to belong into a situation as tense as this one.  
"Are you going around stealing knives again?" he asked, reaching for the offered weapon and securing it at his waist.

Legolas smiled back at him before he turned slightly to shoot quick glances over his shoulder. He clearly didn't feel as calm or confident as he appeared.  
"For the last time, Estel: It's not stealing. It's called borrowing."

"Right," Aragorn said as he followed the elf over to the fire where the others were already gathered. "You have been talking to the twins again."

"It's rather hard to avoid them on this journey."

Aragorn snorted and was about to say something – from the look of it, something sarcastic – when another howl rent the air, this one sounding much closer and sending shivers down their spines even despite the warm night. They instinctively drew closer together into a circle around the campfire, and Aragorn gulped and tried to steady himself even despite all the adrenaline in his system.

"So," he began, astonished himself at how calm his voice sounded, "do we have a plan?"

"Except not getting killed, you mean?" Elrohir asked, his eyes not leaving the dark trees and brush in front of him. 

"That sounds like a good start … Valar, look out!"

Aragorn wasn't sure if it had been Celylith or Legolas who had said that, but he decided that it hardly mattered and that he probably would never find out as the thickets around them rustled violently. He had just enough time and presence of mind to crouch and twist to the side as something huge and dark sprang at him. His quick reaction saved him just in time, and the pained jowl the creature let out as it all but landed in the fire almost made him smile. Wargs didn't like fire, now did they?

Unfortunately, he had unconsciously staggered back a little while he had moved aside to avoid the leaping animal, and _he_ didn't like fire either. He leaped back forward almost as quickly as the warg that had aimed for his throat, and only had enough time to see another large shape coming toward him when the rest of the world seemed to explode into action. The only thing he saw of his brothers, Celylith and Legolas were dark blurs that moved past him, and even that was something that was quickly driven out of his mind when the warg in front of him opened its mouth and growled at him.

Aragorn had to fight down the quite irrational and almost surely childish urge to growl back. First, he reasoned, it wouldn't really impress the warg, and second, he was quite distracted by the way the huge beast stared at him, and just how big it was. Wargs really didn't have all that much in common with their smaller cousins, the wolves, and were both larger and more ferocious. Actually, Aragorn corrected himself while he stared into the warg's yellowish eyes, they were _a lot_ larger.

That they were also a lot more ferocious was proven a second later when the warg leapt at him, the only warning Aragorn received being the small glint in the animal's eyes. The beast moved so quickly and smoothly that he almost didn't have the time to bring his sword up and thus save himself from a painful and very messy death. The sword's long blade disappeared in the snarling warg's side almost to the hilt, and even though the animal was already dying, Aragorn was knocked off his feet by its momentum. Only by sheer luck he was able to avoid the merrily flickering flames that were apparently quite unimpressed by the mayhem that surrounded them, and, ignoring the way the breath had been knocked out of him, he tugged at his stuck blade with all his strength. It finally slid free with a wet, disgusting sound, but Aragorn was too busy to even notice it. In a hasty movement, he rolled to his feet, trying to decide what to do next and how to avoid being either eaten or getting knocked into the fire again.

Legolas and Celylith seemed to have things well under control, even though he would have to have a little conversation with the silver-haired elf concerning things like basic algebra. These were definitely more wargs than 'half a dozen'. Still, the two of them were quite successfully defending themselves against three wargs that were surrounding them, leaping forward once in a while when an weakness seemed to open in the elves' defences. Elladan and Elrohir, too, seemed to be doing all right – Elladan was even looking as if he was quite enjoying himself – which meant that…

A large shape he only spied out of the corner of his left eye suddenly surged forward, and the young man threw himself to the right just in time to avoid having his throat ripped out. _Which meant that he was the only one getting knocked off his feet all the time_, he finished his thought and whirled around, still on his knees, but this time he not quite fast enough. Jaws that were big enough for a troll closed around his left forearm, and for a second Aragorn only stared in shock at the way his arm was disappearing inside of the warg's muzzle. After that second, however, the pain hit him, and through the waves of agony that were spreading from his arm up into his shoulder and chest he decided fuzzily that he really, really couldn't stand wargs.

That feeling appeared to be mutual, for the warg in question only tightened its hold on the young ranger's arm, his eyes glinting maliciously in the firelight, and began to drag him away from the bright flames. Aragorn didn't really know if the animal wanted to get its prey away from the fire that it couldn't stand or if it wanted to drag it somewhere safe where it could finish him off at its leisure, but either way he wasn't too keen on the idea. His right hand immediately felt for the sword he had dropped when the warg's teeth had closed around his arm – just why had he done such a monumentally stupid thing? –, but another tug on his arm made him lose all concentration and a choked yell of pain escaped his tightly clenched lips before he could stop it.

An answering cry of outrage and worry answered him a second later – that must have been Elrohir, he decided somewhat fuzzily, only he managed to sound so indignantly infuriated –, but Aragorn paid it almost no attention. The frantic heartbeat resounding in his skull silenced all the other noises around him, and he felt how sudden anger awoke in his heart. Elbereth Gilthoniel, but he would not be the only one of their party to be dragged off into the night to be torn into pieces!

It would be unseemly, stupid and so embarrassing that he would never live it down.

Completely unaware of his rather unorthodox brand of logic, Aragorn did his best to resist the warg that continued to try and drag him into the brush and desperately felt for the weapon Legolas had handed him no more than five minutes ago. His hand that was shaking with pain and adrenaline found the hilt quickly enough, but grasping it or holding on to it were far more difficult things. In the end he managed to get a hold of it, and with all the determination he could muster his fingers closed around the knife hilt.

Aragorn looked up in the moment that he wrenched the weapon free of its scabbard and stared at the yellow, frenzied eyes of the warg that was still trying its best to rip his arm off. There was no regret in his heart as he swung the blade up, bringing it down over his head and burying it in the side of the beast's neck. Wargs were strong and powerful animals, however, and so it took quite some time until he could pry the dying animal's jaws open to release his mangled arm.

As soon as the appendage was freed, the pain even intensified, and for a second Aragorn seriously contemplated losing consciousness. Then he imagined what his brothers and Legolas would say to that and quickly reconsidered. Some things, pleasing as they might sound at first, simply were not worth it.

Aragorn pushed himself away from the now still body of the warg, his eyes searching for the others. The twins looked all right, even though Elladan had what looked like a long scratch wound on his left arm. Celylith was fine, and Legolas was … well, upright at the very least, but not unscathed. Judging by the way he hunched his shoulders and Celylith had placed himself half a step in front of him, there was something definitely wrong with the elven prince.

A stab of bright fear going through him, Aragorn was about to try and push himself to his feet to aid his friend when he noticed that he had been excluding someone from his ruminations, and with an inner curse he began to search for Haldar. A fine chieftain he was, he told himself darkly, anger temporarily beginning to blot out the pain in his arm. He was quite good at giving grand speeches about responsibility, but when it came to actually looking after his people, he actually forgot that they existed.

No wonder rangers were dying left and right.

His desperately moving eyes came to rest on the object of his thoughts, and before he even realised what he was doing, he was moving. It wasn't far, but in his current condition, torn between the pain in his forearm and the black exhaustion that his nightmare had left him with and the adrenaline that was coursing through his body, it might as well have been a mile. To him it seemed that he was moving at the pace of a footsore snail, but he seemed to have done something right for the first time tonight, because he reached Haldar just as the warg on top of him snarled and went in for the kill.

He was still moving, eyes wide as he took in the grim look on the other ranger's face, his sword that had been knocked out of his hand (that seemed to be happening quite a lot around here, a little voice inside his head remarked sedately) and the warg's teeth that were about two inches away from the other's jugular vein, when he realised that he probably should have tried to remove his dagger from the other warg's body. He didn't have enough time to berate himself for his mistake and simply did the first that came to his mind: He grabbed one of the burning branches that had once been their campfire and thrust it at the snarling beast.

The warg yelped, as surprised by this sudden attack as Aragorn was at having employed it. But unlike its companion that had been scared off by the flames and the heat, this warg simply moved off its intended prey, eyeing this new nuisance that was keeping it away from its well-earned meal with menacing eyes. For the second time that night, Aragorn found himself staring into the yellow eyes of a warg, but this time he didn't wait to be spellbound. His eyes flickered over to the right where Haldar's abandoned blade lay and he sprang into action, even though he knew that the warg would probably reach him before he could reach the weapon.

He would have made it, though, if he hadn't jarred his wounded forearm when he slid to his knees next to the faintly gleaming blade. The sudden flare of pain stunned him momentarily, and so the heavy beast was already upon him when his bloody fingers wrapped themselves around the hilt and thrust it upward, into the chest of the warg. At the same time, something else buried itself in the beast's side with a dull thud, but Aragorn was too stunned by the way he had been pushed onto his back – again – and the way the animal's weight was impeding his ability to breathe to speculate about it.

His senses slowly dimmed as he struggled for breath, but to him it seemed that the fighting was dying down. The rest of the wargs must have been dealt with, he thought hazily as blackness was slowly beginning to tug at the edges of his vision, or maybe they had run away. That was good, especially if it meant that the others wouldn't be dragged into the bushes to be torn to pieces as he almost had been and…

…and suddenly the monstrous weight was lifted off his chest, taking the sword with it that he'd still been grasping weakly. A second later he realised that he could breathe again and duly did so, sucking air into lungs that suddenly refused to work. That had been making sense when that stupid warg had been lying on top of him, but now it was just plain insulting.

"…Estel? Are you all right? Talk to me!"

It took his oxygen-deprived brain some moments to realise what was going on and a few more for his eyes to focus on the face that was hovering in front of his, swimming in and out of focus.

"Le'las?" he finally hazarded a guess, surprised that his voice didn't seem to work properly.

The now solid face split into a wide grin, something that looked quite disconcerting because of the wide, dark red blood stain on the left cheek.  
"Close enough," the elf said, grasping the man's uninjured arm to pull him to his feet. A second later he bent down once more and wrenched one of his knives out of the warg's side. "Are you injured?"

"A bit," Aragorn opted for a half-truth and gladly allowed the other to carry most of his weight for a second. "One of them chewed a bit on my arm, but otherwise I'm fine."

"But of course you are." Aragorn didn't even have to check if the elf was humouring him. Of course he was. "I saw it, Aragorn. That warg almost tore off your arm."

"Almost, yes," Aragorn admitted and gave his elven friend a sharp look. "You aren't doing so very well either, _mellon nín_."

"What, these?" the elf asked with an innocent gesture at the deep, bloody slashes that covered his right side. "These are nothing. I've had worse from Celylith's pets."

"I beg to differ, my lord," the elf in question said, appearing at his prince's left elbow from one moment to the next, so silently that Aragorn would almost have startled visibly. "My pets never do these kinds of things. They might get a little over-enthusiastic from time from time…"

"Hah!" There was sarcasm dripping off the single syllable when Legolas uttered it.

"…but nothing more," the silver-haired elf went on, unperturbed. "Are both of you all right?"

"Yes."

"Surely."

Celylith rolled his eyes not very covertly and disappeared as quickly as he had come, leaving Legolas to escort his human friend to the remains of the campfire, even despite his continued protests that he didn't need such help. Legolas surveyed the chaos of upturned earth, bloody warg carcasses and flaming branches that littered the ground and finally steered Aragorn over to the big fallen log they'd sat on yesterday evening. It was only mildly splattered with blood and other unsavoury things, and the two of them slowly and carefully sat down. It was silent and still around them, with the rest of their party searching the woods and making sure that the wargs were gone for good, and for a second, Aragorn almost thought it was peaceful.

"So," he eventually said, watching out of detached eyes how the shredded sleeve of his once grey shirt turned bright red as blood slowly saturated it. "A pleasant night, is it not?"

"Quite so," Legolas agreed, not looking up from where he was examining the claw-marks on his stomach and side. "A bit warm, though."

"Yes." Aragorn nodded, friendly. The pain hadn't really made a reappearance yet, and he frowned in thought. "It would have been pleasanter in the trees, I guess."

Legolas raised an eyebrow.  
"I hadn't thought I'd ever hear you say that."

Aragorn grinned at him, something that looked a little weak because the adrenaline was slowly beginning to wear off.  
"You know that I really, really can't stand wargs."

"That, my friend, I do know."

He would have said more, but in that moment a horde of oliphaunts crashed through the trees and entered the clearing. Well, in reality it was three elves and a now even more dishevelled-looking ranger, but the very un-elvish racket they were creating was quite impressive.

"Estel, are you all right?" Elrohir asked immediately, rushing over to their side. "Show me your arm."

"I am well, Elrohir."

"No, you're not." The younger twin shook his head and grasped his human brother's arm, turning it so that it was illuminated by the fire that Haldar was once again building up. "Is there anything else? Did you break something when that warg fell on you?"

"No, Elrohir."

"It's very nice to hear that you care about me, too," Legolas grumbled good-humouredly.

"Don't fret, my friend," Aragorn said, wincing as Elrohir probed his wound. "You have Celylith, I have the two of them."

"Oh, yes, aren't we both lucky?"

"I heard that," Celylith announced and stepped around Elrohir to crouch down next to his prince. Legolas cringed as his friend's fingers touched the deep gashes that the warg had torn into his flesh, and Celylith bowed his head in reaction. "Elladan is bringing the supplies."

"I am _fine_, Celylith."

"I am sure you are, my lord." Celylith, as the son of a master healer and with centuries of dealing with his prince in a foul mood, only smiled calmly. "Then I am sure you won't have a problem with me seeing to your wound."

Haldar succeeded in his efforts and managed to coax the fire back into burning brightly and steadily. The ranger straightened up from where he had been crouching next to the embers, his eyes on his young chieftain, but he silently stepped to the side when Elladan appeared next to him, bearing one of the bags Lord Elrond had insisted they bring.

"Are they all gone?" Legolas asked the older twin, in vain trying to bat away Celylith's hands that were examining the wound to his side. "How many did we kill?"

"Nine or ten," Elladan replied, glancing first at Aragorn and then at Legolas, quickly hidden worry flashing over his face. Elrohir temporarily abandoned Aragorn's side to help his twin with the healing supplies. "One escaped, but I very much doubt that it will be back."

"Half a dozen indeed, Celylith," Aragorn said with a grin, turning to the elf.

"I might have miscounted slightly." Celylith shrugged, but there was something dark in his eyes that was gone too quickly to be identified. "Six, ten, twelve … what's the difference?"

"Ilúvatar, those Wood-elves." That comment came from one of the twins, unsurprisingly enough.

"We were lucky," Haldar spoke up for the first time. He was still looking at Aragorn, his eyebrows drawn together so tightly that they looked like a single, dark line. "If they had surprised us, it would have been far, far worse."

"True enough," Elrohir nodded, turning away from the wooden bowl he was just filling with water and giving the man a smile. Haldar looked as if he didn't know if he should be pleased or frightened. "Even like this, it was close enough."

For a second, no one spoke, but then Elladan got up to examine his brother's and friend's wounds himself, leaving the rest of the preparations in Elrohir's hands.

"This will need stitches," he finally announced, replacing the hastily applies bandage that Elrohir had wound around Aragorn's forearm. He lifted the edges of the length of cloth that Celylith was pressing firmly against Legolas' side and grimaced at the sight thus exposed. "That, too, I would think."

Neither of the two protested, which really said more than any number of words could have. The twins exchanged a quick look, and while Elrohir began to wash the torn flesh that had once been Aragorn's fully functional forearm, Elladan searched for the needles and _athelas_ in the bottomless bag that their father had given them.

"Am I the only one," Elrohir finally began, gently wiping away more of the blood that covered Aragorn's wrist and then washing it out in the small bowl of water, "or was this attack a bit … unusual?"

Aragorn looked right through his elven brother's steadily moving hands and shook his head, feeling how the numbness of pain and exhaustion dulled his perception no matter how much he fought it.  
"How so?"

"You are right, Elrohir." Legolas nodded, wincing again as Celylith, who was still holding the erstwhile bandage against his side, pressed down slightly harder to stop the blood flow. "Wargs usually don't travel in packs this large." He turned to Haldar. "Have you ever seen something like this so close to the Angle, Haldar?"

"No, my lord, I have not." The man shook his head, not moving from where he was standing. He had quite rightly decided that none of the elves would thank him for getting in the way. "Packs of up to six are usual, anything else is not."

"Oh, they do," Elladan protested softly as poured some water into a kettle. "But only if they travel with orcs or other dark creatures."

No one said anything to that, because there was nothing to say. Elrohir finished washing his brother's wound and moved on to Legolas, making space for Elladan who had boiled _athelas_ in the water to wash the wounds once more. You could never be too careful when tending to wounds a warg had inflicted; their teeth and claws were notoriously dirty. You were better off washing the wounds twice and not thinking about where said teeth and claws had been before.

Elrohir carefully pulled away the makeshift bandage from Legolas' side, giving the wood-elf a quick, reassuring smile, and began to wash the deep gashes. The water in the bowl was red, and turned redder.  
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****The last vestiges of the night's shadows were slowly dissipating as the sun rose in the east, and the birds that had been silent and still during the long hours of the night were beginning to stir. It would take some more time until they would start chirping, but Legolas could already hear them, hopping from one branch to the next, clicking their beaks and rustling their feathers.

It was strange, somehow, especially knowing that no more than a few hours ago they had been killing wargs in this very clearing. Granted, they had been provoked by the very real threat of being ripped into pieces and eaten, but it still hadn't been pleasant. In fact, it had been quite terrifying, especially considering that Estel had managed to get himself injured– again.

His own wound chose this moment to start smarting again, and Legolas inclined his head with a small, self-conscious smile. To be perfectly honest, Aragorn hadn't been the only one to get himself injured, but that was entirely beside the point! _He_ had only been scratched by one of the beasts, while Aragorn had been buried under one of them, had nearly been set afire and had more or less had his arm ripped off. That was something quite different.

And besides, getting scratched could happen to anyone, even to a wood-elf.

"Legolas?"

The elven prince whirled around, doing his utmost best not to betray his surprise. It was still nearly completely dark, but the twins and Celylith had sharp eyes and even sharper ears. The very last thing he needed now was being teased for nearly jumping out of his skin at being surprised very un-elf-lordly from behind.

"Aragorn!" he breathed when he saw who it was, forcing himself not to clutch at his heart through his tunic. "Valar, don't do something like that! It isn't very polite to sneak up on people like this."

"Consider it payback," Aragorn told him with a grin, taking a step forward to stare at the tree trunk his friend had so diligently considered earlier. "Payback for every single time I got scared out of my wits when I was growing up."

"I didn't even know you when you were growing up," Legolas protested in a soft tone of voice.

"Still." Aragorn shrugged, unconcerned, and winced when the sharp movement jarred his wounded arm. "I have to take it out on someone, I guess."

"What a very Noldorin attitude," Legolas grumbled softly.

Before the man could voice the outraged protest that was undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue, Legolas' hand shot out and closed around his uninjured arm. For the second time in less than six hours, Aragorn found himself being frogmarched around the edges of the little glade. It would have been a lot faster to go through the camp directly, but Legolas gave it a wide berth and pulled him over to the left, where there was a bit of free space that extended into the dense wood. It was still close enough to the camp for them to be able to be able to observe it, but not so close that they would easily be overheard.

"What is it?" he finally asked when Legolas let go of his arm. "Are you being paranoid again, thinking that the Dwarves are out there to get you?"

"They are," Legolas said with total certainty. "But no, that is not it. There are no dwarves this far south of Erebor."

"There might be," Aragorn said wickedly. "Some of them might have left Khazad-dûm to take a little stroll through Eriador."

"Don't even say something like that!" Legolas looked truly alarmed for a second. "That is no joking matter!"

"I am sorry," Aragorn said, not looking overly contrite. "So, are you hiding from Celylith?"

Legolas shot a quick look over his shoulder before he could stop himself. The twins had left about half an hour ago to scout the area and make sure that, now that the wargs had gone, nothing else had found them. It was very possible, considering that the large, wolf-like creatures usually travelled with other creatures under Sauron's command. Celylith had stayed here, feigning exhaustion that was simply a rather poorly disguised attempt to keep an eye on them. Haldar was still sleeping, he thought. Even in his sleep the man hadn't lost that look of anxious, unhappy thoughtfulness he had been wearing since the attack last night.

"No," he answered far too quickly. "What would give you that impression?"

"I don't know." The man looked as if he wanted to shrug, but he seemed to think better of it just in time. "Maybe the look you just shot into the general direction of his bedroll?"

Aragorn hid a grin. He knew for a fact that said bedroll was empty since Celylith was currently busy feeding his pet bat and teaching it 'all the things she needs to know to become a perfect, independent bat'. He could tell Legolas that, but, really, why spoil such a perfect thing and ruin Legolas' day for him?

"You must be mistaken," Legolas said haughtily, every inch the crown prince of Mirkwood and his father's son and heir. "Why are _you_ here, if I might ask? You should be sleeping."

"So I've been told." The young man nodded his head, turning half around to look at the trees and the thick brush in front of them. "Quite often, at that."

"Do you hurt?" Legolas asked the most logical thing. "If you wait but a moment, I will go and find the supplies and get Celylith so he can…"

"No," Aragorn quickly interrupted his friend before he could run off and disturb Celylith in the process of feeding his bat. "I do not hurt. I am all right."

"You were almost torn to pieces by a warg, Estel!" Legolas exclaimed exasperatedly.

"So were you!" the young man retorted, feeling how his hold on his temper grew strenuous and thin, most likely aided by the fact that yes, his arm did hurt. "I could just as well ask you how _you_ were feeling and why _you_ are not resting!"

His friend had a point there, Legolas had to admit that. What he wouldn't admit was that his side _did _sting and that he _was _in fact avoiding Celylith ('hiding' would be far too strong a term, though) so he would not to be prodded or forced to drink foul-smelling potions. Celylith had known him for all his life, and there was no one save his father who could as easily look through his masks and detect if he was in pain as his silver-haired friend.

"Yes, you could," he acknowledged the truth of his friend's words. "And I would tell you that I am as well as can be expected. But this is different, and you know it. I don't _need_ to rest, for that the wound is not serious enough." 

"I know." Aragorn looked away, clearly suppressing the urge to shift his weight uneasily. "I … simply felt no wish to sleep."

"But you should," Legolas said, frowning as he looked at his human friend. Unlike his elven companions, Aragorn could not stay up the better part of the night – parts of it spent fighting – and look no worse for wear. "You … well…"

"Yes?"

"You look as if someone punched you, Aragorn," the elf said bluntly, gesturing at the dark, almost purplish rings under the ranger's eyes. "Repeatedly. Heavily. Someone wearing metal gloves."

"Those wargs get sneakier every year."

"Estel."

"Fine!" Aragorn hissed at him, narrowing his eyes. It was clear that he would have liked to shout the words rather than remain more or less quiet. "Eru, I wish that all of you would stop saying my name like this!" He took a deep breath. "But I was telling the truth. I … did not wish to sleep. I do not think I have to tell you why."

Legolas did understand, at least in a way. If nightmares like the one he had witnessed last night were a quite probable possibility in his life, he was sure _he_ wouldn't sleep either if he could help it. The problem was that men really could _not _help it. They needed sleep, and that was, as they said, that.

"Did you talk to your brothers about it?" he finally asked gently.

Aragorn lowered his head and rubbed at the back of his neck with his un-bandaged hand.

"Yes," he said, carefully not meeting Legolas' eyes. "Last night I spoke with them, while Celylith, Haldar and you looked for the horses."

Legolas nodded encouragingly. They hadn't been gone for too long, not much more than half an hour, but it seemed that the twins had managed to pry the most important things out of the young man, just as they'd thought.  
"And…?"

"And they couldn't tell me anything I didn't know before," Aragorn said, his voice clipped and almost angry. "I can hardly remember what I saw. It's almost as if the fight has erased what images there were."

"What did the twins say?"

"That it is to be 'expected'," Aragorn almost spat. There was anger in his voice, but if it was anger at his brothers or anger at the general situation, Legolas did not know. "That my oh-so-wonderful abilities are still new and have not fully developed yet, and that my body and mind need some time to get accustomed to them. And that until that happens, I should expect to see glimpses or unclear images. Apparently, it is also normal to forget what one has seen. The mind doesn't know what to make of the images, so it pushes them away."

"That sounds … reasonable," the elven prince said carefully, clearly not knowing what to make of his friend's sudden anger. "It is a common enough reaction, after all."

Aragorn snorted.  
"Yes, very common, or so I have been told. Curses, what good does any of this do if I cannot remember all of what I see?"

"So you remember something," Legolas stated the obvious. He didn't like doing it as a general rule, but it seemed that in this case someone had to.

"Yes." The young ranger nodded his head, suddenly sounding calm and completely controlled. "And, Elbereth's stars above, I wish that I didn't."

Legolas didn't reply immediately and only looked at him, a frown ghosting over his face that was gone so quickly that Aragorn wasn't sure if he hadn't imagined it.  
"Will it help you to talk about it?"

"I … I don't know." Aragorn shook his head helplessly. "I honestly don't know."

"Do you _want_ to talk about it?"

"No." The word was said so quickly and firmly that there hardly seemed to be a pause between Legolas' words and his. "Valar, but no."

"Then don't," Legolas said simply. "I will not push you to do something you do not wish to do."

"I know you will not," Aragorn said with a slight nod of his head. "But … but I think I have to tell you. I tried to tell the twins, after all, so telling you would only be fair." He paused and raised solemn, almost doubtful eyes to his friend. "If you would hear me, that is."

"Of course I will." Legolas bowed his head, whether it was to hide his embarrassment or mild indignation, no one could tell. "I know that I have not been as … understanding … as I might have been, but…"

"You have no way to understand it," the young man interrupted him. "None of your family possesses the gift of foresight, or so you said. How could you understand this?"

"I am an elf, Estel," Legolas reminded him softly. "Even though none of my parents nor any other close relation of mine possesses this gift, there are those in Mirkwood who do. Premonitions and smaller signs of magic are everyday occurrences in my father's realm. It is simply that I was never … comfortable around this kind of thing. It is my problem, not yours, and has nothing to do with you. Or at least, it should not reflect on you in any way nor interfere with our friendship, and if it has, I am sorry."

"Legolas," the ranger began calmly, looking at his friend, quite unperturbed, "if you think that I am perfectly all right with the situation, you are sadly mistaken. I am 'uncomfortable' around it, too. I don't understand it any better than you do, I don't know how to interpret what I see, and I don't know what to do. The only difference between us is that you don't embarrass yourself by waking up in the middle of the night, screaming bloody murder and trying to break your friends' and brothers' noses."

"Now that you mention it, that sounds like a wonderful excuse to have."

"It does, doesn't it?" Aragorn agreed with a wry smile. "There is no need to apologise, Legolas," he went on, a serious look on his face and the barest hint of a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You are out of your depths, so to speak, and don't worry, I would never describe you thus in front of anybody. But so am I."

And that, Legolas told himself quietly as he resisted the urge to close his eyes, was why he felt so horribly guilty. His best friend was going through what looked like horrible nightmares, nightmares that would probably even cause Sauron to start sweating if he had a body, and all he could think the whole time was how utterly confused he was and how helpless and useless he felt. With all that came a completely irrational anger at this situation that rendered him useless to his friends, combined with profound shame that he couldn't think about Aragorn's visions without having a shiver of almost-distaste running over his back.

He was a fine friend to have, that much was sure.

"The only ones who are not are the twins," he said with some bitterness that was quite untypical for him.

"They are, too, in a way," Aragorn disagreed. "They have not seen this kind of visions before, it seems. They are … unusual."

"'Unusual'?" Legolas repeated. He felt how his back straightened almost imperceptibly, as if to face this new doom with as much composure as possible. "What do you mean?"

Aragorn looked quite nonchalant all of the sudden.  
"Oh," he began, his attention suddenly fixed firmly on the tips of his boots, "they shouldn't be this powerful. Nor so … graphical or violent. They don't understand it, nor do they know what it could mean."

"And you were planning on telling me that … when?" the prince demanded to know.

"Sometime between 'When this world comes to an end' and 'Never'," Aragorn told him calmly. "I know how you feel about all this, Legolas. I didn't want to burden you with vague, half-imagined images that are most likely no more than figments of my imagination."

"They are not, and both you and I know that," Legolas said without the slightest hint of a doubt in his voice. "We might wish it was different, but we know better."

Aragorn shrugged and lowered his eyes to his boots again, something that made him look like a chastised child and impossibly young. Legolas felt how the slight tendrils of anger that were wrapping themselves around his heart dissipated – just why would Aragorn think that he wouldn't want to know about something that troubled him, why would he think that he was indifferent to his suffering? –, and he couldn't help but sigh in a mixture of exasperation and sadness. Aragorn was too independent by half, and that tendency of his of not wanting to 'bother' anybody with his problems was going to get him into real trouble one day soon.

"Look at me," he said, reaching out and placing one long finger under the young ranger's chin to lift his head. "Do not ever think something like this again, do you hear me? If something like this ever happens again, you tell me." He grinned suddenly, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "I can't have those Noldor knowing something I don't, after all."

"No, of course not." Aragorn shook his head, gently extricating himself from the other's hold. "That would simply be _wrong_."

"It would," Legolas agreed with the utmost seriousness. "It would upset some basic law of the cosmos."

"And we can't have that." The man nodded, the smile on his face slowly fading until it was gone completely. He was quiet for a long time, and just when Legolas thought he would have to break the silence, he continued. "There was someone there. A man perhaps, or something man-shaped."

"Where?" Legolas asked automatically before he could stop himself. "In your dream?"

"Yes." Aragorn nodded again and looked away. "He wasn't there before, or at least I don't think so."

"I see." In fact, Legolas did not see, but he hoped that that fact wasn't as obvious to Aragorn as it was to himself. "Did he … do something? Say something?"

He trailed off, shaking his head. He had no idea how these things usually worked, and he was quite positive that he hadn't felt this ill at ease and out of his depths since Celylith had appeared all these years ago with that warg cub of his, insisting that they keep it and that it was the "most adorable little fur ball" ever. The worst thing had been that, despite the cub's tendency to try and eat everything it saw, including them, it had been quite … bearable for one of its kind, even though that was something that he had never told his friend.

"No," Aragorn answered his question, unaware of his friend's unease. "It isn't like that. Before last night, I only saw flashes of something. It was like that this time as well, at least in the beginning. All the things I saw before I saw this time, too – but they are still so vague and nondescript that they will hardly help us."

"But then there was the 'man', if he was that," Legolas prompted.

"Yes. Then there was the 'man'," Aragorn repeated. "He … he suddenly stood in front of me. It was dark, so very, very dark, and he appeared out of the darkness as if he was a part of it. Maybe he _was_ a part of it."

Legolas suppressed a shudder. That was a possibility he wasn't quite prepared to contemplate.  
"What did he look like? You did not see his face?"

Of course Aragorn hadn't seen his face, the elf almost immediately chastised himself. If he had seen his face, he would know if he had been in fact a man or only something that looked like a human.

"No," the young man admitted predictably enough. "I did not. He wore a long, dark … coat of some sort, and a hood over his head that hid his face completely. But in the end, a few seconds before I woke up, he inclined his head to look at me."

"And?" Legolas was quite sure that he didn't want to hear the answer to that question. He had reached his august age of over 2500 years by listening to his feelings and instincts, and right now they were telling him that all this was bad news.

Well, of course it was.

"Nothing," Aragorn replied with a small, hollow laugh. "There was nothing where there should have been a face. Nothing but more darkness that was so black and menacing that I thought I would lose my mind."

And that was when he had woken up, even though he did not say it. He didn't have to. Legolas had been there when they had shaken the man awake, and he wasn't sure he would ever be able to forget the scream his friend had uttered before they had succeeded.

There was a suspicion lurking at the back of his mind, a suspicion so terrible that he would have liked nothing better than to ignore it. There was nothing to it, however, and the mere thought of his friend being in such a danger was enough to prompt him to speak.

"Do you..." he began with uncharacteristic hesitation and trailed off. He took a deep breath and continued. "Do you think it might have been one of the…"

"One of the Nine?" Aragorn finished his sentence for him, looking rather unconcerned for someone speaking about one of Sauron's most fearsome and feared servants. "I do not know."

That was hardly reassuring. Legolas, who as a wood-elf had more experience with the Ringwraiths than other elves, couldn't help but shiver, feeling as if a cold, dark fist had reached into his chest and closed around his heart. The very idea of a wraith on the loose was enough to awake in him the powerful urge to grab Aragorn and ride back to Imladris as quickly as possible.

"Aragorn," he began, surprised at how calm he sounded, "if it was one of the _Úlairi_, if they are looking for you, then…"

"…then I am as good as dead," Aragorn finished his sentence, his face hard and stony. "Unless I was hiding in Imladris, they would find me, no matter what I do, no matter where I am. And that I am not prepared to do."

"These are the Nine we are talking about, Estel." Legolas looked openly scared now, something he almost never did. "You do not know of what you speak. Should the Nine Riders seek you, they will stop at nothing to get you. And if they do and your father is right, all of us will be lost. And I have never known him to be wrong about something like this, not in all the long years I have known him."

"No," Aragorn agreed softly. "He usually isn't. But there is no more I can tell you, and nothing more I can say to ease your mind. I don't know if it was one of the Nine that I saw. Valar, for all I know it could have been nothing but a _dream_, have you ever thought about that?"

Legolas gave him a flat look, as if that was the stupidest thing the man had ever said.  
"No."

The young ranger actually grinned a little before he lowered his head.  
"Well, neither have I. And the twins don't believe it either."

"Now it actually makes sense that they looked like grimness personified when they left this morning," Legolas remarked, off-handed.

"Quite," Aragorn agreed, fiddling with one end of the bandage wrapped around his forearm. "They jumped to the same conclusions as you did and were not pleased."

"I do not 'jump to conclusions'," the elf informed him coldly.

"But of course not." Aragorn smiled at his bandaged arm, still not meeting his friend's eyes. "They are harbouring the same suspicions, then. First they tried to convince me to turn back, but then they noticed that it wasn't helping. I think they are right now working on a detailed schedule to make sure that I am not left alone even for a second."

"I will have to join them, then," Legolas said, his voice completely serious. He watched the ranger play with the edge of his bandages for a second longer before he slapped his hand away. Aragorn dropped his uninjured hand to the side and looked up sheepishly, and Legolas shook his head at him. "Even if we are wrong and there are no _Úlairi_ involved, this dream bodes ill. We will have to be very careful."

"As opposed to the way we have until now been screaming at the top of our lungs 'We are here, come and get us!'?" Aragorn inquired, a single eyebrow arched in irony.

"Well, we _were_ attacked by wargs," Legolas pointed out. "And you were almost eaten."

"True," Aragorn admitted magnanimously. "But that was nothing but a coincidence. Even you can't find a way to blame any of us for it."

Legolas gave him an imperious stare.  
"Do I have to remind you whose idea it was to light that fire?"

"Don't even think about it," Aragorn warned him. "If you put this on Haldar's shoulders, I will have to hurt you."

Legolas pointedly looked past his friend, straight at Haldar who had risen and was right now looking quite anxious, clearly wondering where they were.  
"Don't worry, _mellon nín_," he told the man. "I wouldn't think of it."

Aragorn gave him a long look but finally nodded, suspicion clouding his face.

"Good, because if you can't get along with him, I shudder to think what you would do to the other rangers we meet." Legolas only blinked innocently at him, something that awoke in him the powerful urge to either grab his weapons or run and hide, and with a sigh he admitted defeat. "Come, then. If we hurry, we can have breakfast ready when the twins return. That should mellow them a little and might stop them from following me wherever I go."

"I seriously doubt that," Legolas said, assuming the role of the Voice of Reason. "But it's definitely worth a try."

Aragorn smiled at him, looking vaguely relieved, and gestured at him to precede him. A few moments later, they had reached the fireplace, and Legolas gave Haldar – who was in the process of smoothing down his hair into a more befitting arrangement – an exaggeratedly friendly smile, something that earned him another dark look of disapproval from Aragorn.

Legolas ignored his human friend with the ease that only long practice brought and greeted Haldar courteously while he was walking over to where they had stacked their supplies. The man returned the greeting, but Legolas noticed that he wasn't even looking at him but rather at Aragorn who was completely unaware of the attention he was receiving while he gathered the cooking utensils they would need. There was a look on Haldar's face that Legolas couldn't identify entirely; it was somewhere between guilt, remorse, shame and fear, the same one he had worn ever since the fight.

When the ranger didn't make a move to speak or actually do anything, Legolas turned back to the small pile of bags in front of him, inwardly shaking his head.

If Haldar did not speak up, Aragorn would have to, but it seemed that his human friend would have to figure that out all by himself. He definitely couldn't help him with this.  
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****Skagrosh was quite a clever creature, even if he thought so himself. There were those who would scoff at the thought of an orc being anything but braindead, but, well, those were coincidentally also the ones that fell frequently before his scimitar.

That wasn't because he was very intelligent, or very brave. He was a survivor – you had to be if you wanted to last any amount of time in the Horde – and he knew very well when to duck and become invisible. He also possessed a cruel, vicious streak that put most of the others to shame, something that his master had found useful on more than one occasion.

It was something he enjoyed, too. There weren't many things as enjoyable as watching little worms like that pretty ranger boy squirm and bleed and scream. In fact, he was rather sure that there were none at all.

Skagrosh straightened up as much as an orc could and reluctantly began to move over to the entrance of the cave, where the master was waiting. There was no reason for him to be displeased with any of them – they had been doing exactly what he had told them to do, no matter how much more they'd have liked to do –, but the master could be volatile. That in itself wouldn't have been such a problem, but he also was as ruthless as any of them. He wasn't as ruthless as _Him_, of course, but quite ruthless enough for all of them.

Something shuffled into his path from the right, and yellow eyes flashed as Skagrosh turned his head to track the movement. Orcs had no trouble seeing in the dark, and even though the interior of the cave was absolutely and completely pitch-black, he could see that one of the smaller orcs had stumbled into his way. Skagrosh, who had some _uruk_ blood in him, snarled at the smaller, lumbering creature and backhanded it sharply across the face.

"Out of the way, _snaga_!"

The other orc cowered against the rock wall against which it had been thrown and hissed at him, but made no move to defy or challenge its leader. How could it; it barely reached Skagrosh's shoulder and the taller orc knew for a fact that it couldn't even kill a lame deer without the other members of the horde helping. Something in the other orc's eyes roused his anger, and Skagrosh drew back and kicked it in the side, hard. The smaller creature yelped and tried to escape, but Skagrosh wouldn't let it and didn't let up until it had stopped moving and lay still.

By the time the taller orc looked up again, there were quite a few of the others gathered around him, yellowish eyes gleaming in the darkness that only an orc or one of the cursed Elves could have seen.

"What're you lookin' at?" he hissed at them, displaying long yellow fangs. "Get going, skai!"

They dispersed with a swiftness that no one would have expected from orcs or other creatures like them. One or two of them poked the motionless orc, clearly trying to figure out if it was dead – and if yes, to figure out who would get its gear and how quickly they would be able to cook and eat it – but even they scrambled away as they saw the rage on their captain's face. A late meal wasn't worth their captain' wrath, that it wasn't.

Skagrosh growled after them before he bent down and wrenched the scimitar out of the fallen orc's scabbard, testing its blackish blade against one of his thumbs. Black blood welled up almost immediately, and he smiled to himself, the muscles in his face almost protesting against the unfamiliar movement that pulled at the metal rings that pierced the skin. He'd needed a new blade; it seemed that this worm had been good for one thing after all.

He let his old scimitar fall to the ground with a loud, clattering sound and replaced I with the one he had just taken. Smiling almost happily, Skagrosh began to walk down the tunnel into the direction of the cave's mouth. There were some shuffling movements at the edges of his vision and he smelt the others' uneasiness, anger and fear as he moved past, but none of them stepped out of the shadows. That was how things were supposed to be, he told himself. He didn't have time for weaklings or smart-mouths; if they couldn't keep up with the horde or keep their tongue behind their teeth, he had no use for them.

Actually, it seemed that he had little use for them at all, lazy filth that they were.

Faint starlight touched the floor before his heavily booted feet, and Skagrosh hurriedly took the last few steps separating him from the entrance of the cave. Predictably enough, the tall, hooded figure of the master was already waiting there for him, standing still and motionless like one of the trees that the bloody Elves loved so much. Skagrosh could smell the master's horse somewhere not too far away; the master always kept it away from them because it became too nervous around them.

The orc unconsciously licked his lips, a greedy glint appearing in his yellow eyes. Clever beastie, wasn't it?

"You're late." His master's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Little problem with the others, sir," Skagrosh rasped, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and keeping his head lowered submissively. "Won't happen again, sir."

"No, it will not," the other replied, his voice as emotionless as if he was only discussion the well-known fact that rain was wet. "Because if it does, I will slit your throat from one ear to the other and replace you faster than the horde can tear you apart to roast you on a stick. Understood?"

The orc mumbled something that could be taken as an affirmative. The hooded figure narrowed his eyes at him, something that not even the orc's sharp eyes could see, and decided with pure disgust in his heart that he would be glad when all this was over and he was rid of Skagrosh and his horde. Controlling orcs was somewhat like watching over a few dozen small children, with the small difference that instead of finger painting there was death and torture.

"I do not have much time," he went on. "We have to move quickly if we want to move to the new campsite before sunrise. We have been staying here for far too long; sooner or later someone will stumble over us. Is everything ready?"

"Yes, Master," Skagrosh said, still not looking at him.

"Good." The hooded being nodded his head. "You know the rules. No straying from the group, no loud noises. The one who does not choose his path with care or disobeys these orders will die by my hands and for the amusements of the others."

"Yes, Master."

"Get your scouts," he continued, already turning away from the orc. "We will move out in a few minutes. Stragglers are more than welcome to explain their difficulties to me personally."

Skagrosh inclined his head and melted back into the darkness to follow his orders. Within a few seconds the tall being could feel the tension behind him increase as the orc relayed the orders; a few moments later a low whine could be heard, followed by guffawing laughter that seemed to cut through the stillness of the night. Someone had not been fast enough, then, or had looked at Skagrosh in the wrong way, or been in the wrong place.

The hooded figure shook his head again, ignoring the clanking noises behind him that meant that Skagrosh had begun to organise his men, if one could speak of organising when talking about the Horde. He stared at the serenely shining stars that covered the dark sky and their, pure innocent beauty and felt how a terrible rage welled up inside up of him that momentarily obscured his vision, a rage that mixed with something else that he did not care to try and identify.

"It was nothing!" he whispered to himself, his voice fierce and commanding. "Nothing more than a dream and shadows."

With a last, angry look at the stars he turned his back to the cave's entrance and went to fetch his horse.

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_mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
athelas (S.) - 'Kingsfoil', a healing herb that, towards the end of the Third Age, was used almost exclusively by the Dúnedain and the Elves  
Úlairi (Q.) - Ringwraiths, Nazgûl  
uruk (Black Speech) - 'Orc', in this case one of the larger, stronger orcs of Mordor that were first seen in Gondor in III, 2475, also called Uruk-hai  
snaga (B. S.) - 'slave', used of the lesser breeds of orcs_

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So, lots of people got a lot of things. Wish I was so lucky, too - well, thinking about it, I'd take the scimitar, at least, or a warg cub. I'm not so sure about the doom-and-gloom or the nightmares. •g• As I said, the next update will be here in two weeks (sorry again for the delay), in which they all arrive at the camp, meet the charming captain and a lot of other people, some of them rather familiar. Oh, and there's more doom-and-gloom and we see what Elrond and the rest of Rivendell is up to. With Lúthien gone, they should be happy, shouldn't they? •evil grin• But they're not, you guessed it. As always, reviews make ME happy, so review, please! To all of you who celebrate it, Happy Easter!**

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**Additional A/N:**

FF-net seems to have gone on strike once more - I can't see anybody's email address on the profile pages! I am very sorry for not replying to your lovely reviews right away - I shall keep on trying to obtain said email addresses over the next two days. Once again, sorry for the delay. Am I the only one who is having this problem? •shakes head• On second thought, don't answer that. I really don't want to know. •g• 


	11. Friends And Allies

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**I've had a few very busy and stressful weeks, but I'm still very sorry that it took me so long to update. I underestimated the amount of work that stupid paper would take, as usual (but if you want to know anything about the Knights Hospitaller of Jerusalem, I'm the one to ask! •g•) and underestimated the time you always need to figure out your timetable (I must have been in five or six different seminars until I've finally decided which one I want to attend!). There also was a little misunderstanding with my health insurance company, my sister's visit (she'll be here till Friday or so) and the fact that she broke her fingers and had to be operated on, **_**and **_**the fact that my dog almost died. I've been completely inconsolable for two days and really wasn't of much use to anybody. But she's better now, or so my mother says. •crosses fingers•**

**To make up for all this, I'll shut up now and you get an extra-long chapter. The characters didn't really co-operate (I know, I know, what else is new?), so I finally decided to take out the Rivendell scene and put it into the next chapter. Sorry about that, it suddenly didn't fit anymore. So, we have a little talk between Aragorn and Haldar, meet a lot of random Dúnedain including the charming captain, see a bit of Halbarad (he'll be in the next few chapters, never fear) and - surprise! - there's bad news at the end. I really wonder why anybody isn't already expecting things like that...**

**As always, have fun and review, please!**

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Chapter 11

He shouldn't be this anxious. He knew he shouldn't be this anxious, knew that there was absolutely no reason for it, but he simply couldn't help himself.

Well, there was absolutely no reason for it if one disregarded the fact that there was someone or something out there hunting rangers – someone or something that might very well be after him. Oh, and if one disregarded the fact that he had had more nightmares since that night, nightmares that, if anything, became progressively more graphic and violent. _And_ if one disregarded the fact that they were about to arrive at their destination, something that was almost enough to make him openly jittery.

So, Aragorn concluded calmly as he steered his horse around a tree that had grown onto the path that was hard to see to begin with, if one disregarded a lot of things, he had no right to be this anxious. He was, however, and he found that he was angry at the way that his heart thumped in his chest. His wounded arm decided to join his heart's rhythm in a show of ill-timed solidarity, and the young man scowled at his horse's ears. This was getting ridiculous.

"The road is blocked."

Aragorn's head shot up, and he prayed that no one had noticed his absent-mindedness. First he had almost been eaten by wargs, now he was spending his entire time daydreaming. He would never hear the end of it.

"Blocked?" he repeated, looking sharply at his brother as if the older twin had just pronounced that he had just got engaged to a dwarf maid.

"Blocked," Elladan repeated, reining in his horse to wait for the others to catch up with them. They had been taking point – 'had' being the operative word since Aragorn had fallen back a while earlier, looking as if he was contemplating all the secrets of the universe. "You know, the thing that usually happens when a few trees topple over."

"A few trees?" Legolas asked, reaching their side in this very moment. Elladan shot the elven prince's horse only one look – but that one was a rather nervous one – and moved his own mount further to the side, out of Rashwe's reach. You never knew when that demon-horse would try and eat you alive. "How many?"

"Four or five, I believe," Elladan answered, his eyes still not leaving the white horse. Rashwe didn't seem to notice it; if anything, he looked even more innocent than he usually did when his master was around. "The path is blocked almost completely, a few hundred yards down the road. We will have to lead the horses around it."

The others had reached them as well now, and Celylith frowned slightly as he stopped his horse next to his prince's, apparently not very concerned about Rashwe. It must be a wood-elf thing, Aragorn told himself, watching the scene with interest and amusement. Either that, or the fact that Celylith wasn't exactly what one would call sane, especially when it came to insane, evil creatures.

"Did it look like a natural occurrence?" he asked, voicing what the rest of them were thinking. "Or should we be prepared for something lurking in the brush?"

"If there is, we will not send _you_ ahead," Elrohir told the silver-haired elf. He, too, kept his distance from Rashwe, something that the prince's horse only commented with a superior sneer that was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "You would tell us there were only six or seven while there were in reality two dozen waiting for us to appear."

Celylith sighed.  
"You are never going to let me forget that, are you?"

The twins exchanged a quick look.  
"No."

"I thought so."

"And to answer your question," Elladan added, "no, I don't think anybody is waiting for us there. It looks as if there was a storm; the trees were not very old, and the trunks are splintered as if they had just been … blown onto the road."

"This path isn't used very often," Haldar said quietly. "We usually use the roads leading to the south and the west, and if we head north, we use the larger road. It's quicker and thing like this don't happen nearly as often."

He didn't have to say why he had kept them away from the main road.

"So we can all agree that we will most likely not be ambushed by something either large and hairy or incredibly blood-thirsty?" Legolas asked. It didn't really sound as if he was joking, either.

"I would say so." Elladan nodded his head with a small smile.

"That should be an enjoyable experience for a change, then."

"We should reach the picket lines in a few miles," Haldar added. "If they don't know about this yet, we should inform them. You never know when you will need a fast escape route." He smiled slightly, something that positively lit up his serious countenance. "It would be embarrassing to be killed because your horse stumbled over a fallen tree."

The twins exchanged an unreadable look, and Elrohir finally smiled, too, reaching out to clasp the ranger's shoulder. Haldar looked very much as if he was about to faint on the spot.

"The next time you are in Imladris, you have to spend some more time with Lord Glorfindel," the younger twin declared, giving him a smile. "You two would get along fabulously, I am sure about it."

"Thank you, my lord."

Aragorn, who knew that that wasn't entirely meant as a compliment, gave his brothers a cold look and gestured at the path behind them.  
"Since you found the trees you can also be the ones to find away around them."

"You see what I have been talking about?" Legolas whispered loudly, leaning towards Celylith with a grin on his face. "Noldorin logic."

"Indeed, my lord."

"Why don't you demonstrate the logic of your woodland people, your Highness, and show us the way?" Elrohir asked with a grin so wide that it looked positively dangerous.

"I think I will," Legolas said with a haughty movement of his head. "Lead the way."

"Of course, your Highness. Whatever his Highness commands. Your very wish is our command, your Highness."

"This is the kind of behaviour that is more appropriate and that I have been missing," Legolas informed no one in particular as he urged his horse forward, following the twins. "You Noldor are a disrespectful lot."

Elladan growled something under his breath that could be heard even despite Celylith's laughter, and Elrohir placed a hand on his twin's arm in a calming manner.  
"Don't, _gwanur_. Remember our plan; we still have to look for a fire ant hill. It would be a shame to kill him now, after all the planning we've done."

Legolas in turn mumbled something under his breath as well, but not even Aragorn's sharp ears could discern what it had been – something he didn't lament overly much. There were things he didn't really want to know. A few minutes later, he found himself picking his way through the undergrowth next to the downed trees and realised that his elven companions were quite a bit ahead and had left him behind with Haldar. They were apparently rather keen on keeping up the distance between them, and he didn't know if he should feel touched or annoyed. They could be sneaky indeed.

Haldar, who as a ranger knew when to seize an opportunity that had so suddenly presented itself, didn't hesitate long. Perhaps he, too, had decided that two days were quite long enough.

"My lord," he began, ducking to the side when his horse stumbled slightly and pushed him a bit too close to a thicket of wild blackberry bushes. "My lord," he tried again, "I have been meaning to speak with you."

Aragorn bit back a smile he knew would not be received well. He would be the first one to admit that he wasn't always as observant as he would like to be, especially when it came to problems that were not voiced out loud – Elves were far more versed in things like that than him. It was probably a side-effect of being immortal, wise and nigh perfect. Still, even he had noticed – after several not-so-subtle hints from Legolas – that something was bothering Haldar. It seemed that now he had decided to seize this chance, even though – just to be fair – Aragorn had to admit that there had already been quite a few times he could have seized, had he wanted to.

Whatever this was about, it was clear that Haldar did _not_ want to talk about it.

"Go ahead, Haldar," he said, turning around for a second to give Haldar a quick look. "I doubt that we will be more undisturbed than we are now." A small, wry smile spread over his face, and he added, "Especially considering how our journeys usually end."

"Let me guess, my lord: In pain, blood and chaos?"

"Exactly." Aragorn smiled and guided his horse a little to the side to allow Haldar to walk beside instead of behind him. "We have been lucky until now, and I say that without the slightest hint of irony. But you were about to say something, Haldar. Please, go on."

Haldar, looking quite a bit like a man condemned to a death that consisted of being tied to a spit and then being slowly roasted over an extremely hot fire, did not answer immediately. Before he finally did, he looked about himself (possibly to make sure that there really wasn't anything lurking in the bushes), gave his horse a pat and developed a brief but intense fascination with the blue sky that was barely visible through the green-leaved branches of the trees. In the end, he seemed to decide that this behaviour was unworthy of a _dúnadan_ and took a deep breath.

"I am sorry, my lord," the ranger finally said, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of them. "I should have paid more attention to my surroundings. It should not have happened, and I swear to you that it will not happen again in the future."

Aragorn was quite confused by that statement.  
"Sorry about what? That wargs jumped us before he had even put a hundred miles between us and Rivendell? That is hardly your fault, Haldar. In fact, I am not sure whose fault it is. Lord Elrond insists that it is ours, but I subscribe to the infinitely more logical view that the Valar hate us."

"That might very well be so," Haldar agreed with a small smile. "But that is not what I meant, my lord." He took another deep breath. "I put your life at risk. Instead of protecting you as I should have, I was unable to protect myself. I failed in my duty as a dúnadan, and I failed you."

Aragorn was silent for a while, but then his hand reached out and grasped the other ranger's horse's bridle. His fingers closed gently around the worn leather – if there was one thing he had learned in Rivendell, it was that horses could be very temperamental – and pulled the animal to a stop.

"There is only one thing I can tell you, Haldar, and that is that beings millennia older than you have tried to 'protect' me all my life." He smiled at the other man. "They failed quite often, and do you know why? Because life is unpredictable and you cannot plan for every eventuality, no matter how much you would like to."

"It is my duty to protect you, my lord," Haldar insisted in a low tone of voice. "I am a ranger, and you are my chieftain. How am I going to explain to Daervagor that I did not only bring you along, but also let you get injured by a warg? If you had not saved me, I would be dead now, sir. You know it; I know it. This is not how it is supposed to be."

Aragorn's smiled froze on his lips, the guilty anguish in the older man's voice sobering him in much the same way as the mention of his captain. He had only met Captain Daervagor briefly, but he had been left with the lasting impression that the other ranger had been unimpressed by the encounter, if not downright disappointed.

"I am sorry," he said finally, shaking his head. "There is nothing we can do to change what happened. All I can say is that I bear you no ill will nor blame you. You are one of my travelling companions, Haldar. Even if you weren't one of my people, I would have done everything in my power to help you."

"But it should have been the other way around!" the other man exclaimed. "You are the lord of our people and my leader. You shouldn't have put yourself at risk for me!"

Aragorn took a deep breath, feeling that there were some misconceptions floating around here. Absent-mindedly, he ran his hand over Ráca's gleaming coat, wishing – not for the first time in his life – that Rangers were a little more like Elves. Elves he could handle. Elves he knew _how_ to handle.

"You are 45 years old, aren't you?" he asked, trying to decide how to put this best.

Haldar looked confused. It was quite a nice change from him looking guilty and miserable.  
"47 years, my lord."

"Then you were 26 when my father died." It was statement, and still Aragorn sounded uncertain, as if this was no subject he talked about easily. "Had you joined the companies yet?"

"Just," Haldar said, nodding slightly. "My brother had left just a few years before I did, and I needed some time to convince my mother to let me leave, too." He frowned. "She was not pleased."

"I can imagine that." Aragorn smiled. "Let me put it this way, Haldar: Your captain, would you not risk your life for him, if you saw he was in danger?"

"Of course I would, my lord." The 'Stupid question' went unspoken, and yet Aragorn could almost hear it. "I would do the same for any of my comrades."

"That is one thing I never doubted," Aragorn quickly reassured him. "And your captain, would he do any less for you or your comrades?"

"Captain Daervagor is a man of honour and a great leader. My lord." Haldar looked positively offended, and the added honorary title for once didn't sound the least bit respectful. "He is strict, yes, and sometimes prone to anger, but he takes his duty very seriously. All of us know that if we are ever lost, he will do what he can to get us back home safe and sound. He…"

"I did not mean to insult the captain, for whom I have nothing but the greatest respect," Aragorn said, a small smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. "He would not leave any of his men behind, I am sure about it."

"Never, my lord." Haldar shook his head so quickly that one could almost hear the vertebrae in his neck cracking. "He…" The ranger trailed off, grudging understanding dawning on his face before he set his jaw stubbornly. "I see what you are aiming at, my lord, but that is different. Daervagor is my captain. You are..."

"Yes, Haldar," Aragorn interrupted him as gently as he could. "I am. But that doesn't mean that I am above all this. With your captain's help – and yours and your men's – I will one day be able to command you as you deserve. But how do you think I would do that? By hiding behind you every time something dangerous happens, by letting you fight for me? I would not do that. I cannot do that."

Haldar didn't say anything, his face stony and emotionless, and for a brief moment Aragorn had the horrible feeling that he'd said something stupid and inappropriate.

"It's been quite a long time since you served under my father," Aragorn went on. "I realise that. But you knew him, even if only a little, I think. I wish that I had had the chance to get to know him, and while I never did, I think that he did not think or act differently. And I also think that neither you nor anyone else expected it of him."

"No." Haldar shook his head. "He did not. We did not." 'And that is what got him killed,' he thought, but he did not say it. After all, not even he was _that_ undiplomatic.

"Then extend me the same courtesy," the young ranger said in a tone of voice that sounded almost pleading. "When we reach the camp, I will be nothing but an orphan, wishing to spend some time with his parents' people and hunt some orcs with his adopted brothers."

"But you are not, my lord. I can hide the truth from any who might seek to discover it, but I will still remember it."

"I will be your captain one day, Haldar," Aragorn told him bluntly. "And I will not ask you or anybody else to fight my battles for me. If you would think that, or if you would think that I would leave my companions and my friends to almost certain death because taking action might inconvenience me or might result in injury, I must ask myself what kind of person you think me to be."

Now it was Haldar's turn to look ill at ease. In fact, he looked downright horrified.  
"My lord, I … I did not mean to…"

"Peace, my friend, I know that you did not." Aragorn raised a hand, cutting off the other's jumbled words. "I am no child to be coddled, Haldar," he went on, giving him a somewhat watered-down version of the _look_. He didn't want the older man to panic, after all. "Nor am I something fragile that has to be protected and shut away somewhere safe. Our enemies will not treat me in such a way, you can be sure about that."

"If I may be blunt, my lord," Haldar began, raising his head to look the younger man in the eye, "but you are the last of your line. If something should happen to you, the line of the kings will be broken, and all might fall into darkness."

"I realise that." Aragorn nodded seriously. "Please, believe me, I realise that. But if I allow myself to be cowed, then He has already won."

"If there is one thing I have learned from my brother's death, my lord," Haldar said sadly, "it is that life is not a game. It is not about winning or losing. What matters is that you stay alive."

"And you, too, Haldar." Aragorn shook his head, fighting annoyance and incredulity. Valar, but this one could be stubborn! "It was a calculated risk, that is all I can say. I do not like to risk my life needlessly, and I am well aware of my responsibilities. But I will not allow the Dark One to decide this for me, and that is final. I could no more live with myself if I did than I could hide forever."

Haldar opened his mouth to argue his point, but closed it again when he realised that it was quite useless. The boy had a gleam in his eyes that clearly suggested that what he had just said was not open to debate or negotiation. There was something about the way he set his chin that suddenly reminded him of Captain Daervagor and Lord Arathorn and also, to the same degree or even more, of Lord Elrond, and that realisation was enough to unnerve him.

The ranger sighed softly and nodded his head, his eyes not leaving the other man's face. In the soft gloom that filled the space around them, he looked young, far too young to be having this kind of conversation.

"You are your father's son, my lord, and no doubt about it," he said, reaching for his horse's bridle as he admitted defeat. "We should catch up with the others."

Aragorn gave him a sharp look, as if expecting him to come up with any more arguments, but in the end he only inclined his head in wordless agreement. A few seconds later they were moving again, and Haldar found himself staring at his back as he followed him and tried not to get entangled in one of the many bushes that seemed to reach out for him with long, thorny fingers.

Only when they stepped back onto the road did he realise that he had not specified which father he had meant, and that he did not even know the answer himself.  
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**Ciryon was bored. He knew that it wasn't a very intelligent thing to be, all things considered, but he simply couldn't help himself. For all the unrest and panic that was rife in the camp, nothing had happened in the past week that could be called exciting or interesting in any way. Well, if one didn't count that thunderstorm a few days back. That had been somewhat entertaining, and Ereneth had almost been hit by a lightning bolt.

That boy was one of the unluckiest people he had ever met.

The young man was snapped out of his thoughts by a soft sound to his left, and while Ciryon was automatically straightening up and doing his best to look attentive and as vigilant as a sentry should, he realised that it couldn't be his commander, or worse, his captain, come to check on them himself. His commander had left a while ago with the openly voiced intention to return to the small Dúnedain village close-by and enjoy a late lunch with his wife, a late lunch during which he did not wish to be disturbed. They usually didn't make camp so close to their settlements – not even temporary ones – but there had been rumours of highwaymen close to here these past months and no one wanted to run any risks, especially now. And Captain Daervagor … well, it was easiest to say that he wasn't exactly one to sneak up on you.

And that, he told himself, left him with only one possibility, namely…

"What is this, soldier, daydreaming while on duty? I am scandalised. Not surprised, but scandalised."

Ciryon turned around after stabbing his spear into the loose earth with an almost angry jab, a long-suffering scowl on his face. Ever since Serothlain had been promoted to group leader, the other ranger had been positively unbearable. He still loved him, of course – they had grown up together, which meant that he had already invested quite some time in this friendship and wasn't ready to discard that just yet –, but sometimes he could be almost unbearably … cheerful.

"I am not daydreaming," he told the other man curtly.

"Oh?" Serothlain asked, an insolent grin on his face as he stepped next to his friend, giving the road a quick glance that wound around the small hill they were standing on. Not a thing stirred there, something that was just as well. It was blocked, after all, something that they had discovered only this morning, and if he knew the dear captain at all, they would be spending the next few days trying to clear it. A poor little hobbit might want to use it, and they wouldn't want any little ones to lose their way in the forest, now would they?

Normally, Serothlain would agree with that without hesitation, but when it involved clearing huge trees off slightly useless roads, he was a bit more reluctant. And he would never really understand that strangely soft spot their usually so stern captain had for hobbits.

"No, I am not," he insisted. "I am merely thinking about our esteemed commander and his wife."

"You shouldn't," Serothlain told him seriously, reaching up and pushing a strand of long dark hair out of his eyes. "She is married to _him_, and if you keep staring at her like this, our esteemed commander will make sure that _you_ are the next one to disappear."

"A beauty like that is quite hard to ignore," Ciryon said, purposely looking as starry-eyed and lovesick as he could. It annoyed his friend every time. "Not everybody can be as happily engaged as you, my friend."

"It's your funeral." The smaller man shrugged. "He's a jealous man, you know. And besides, what would she want with a simple ranger if she already has a commander?"

"That was low," Ciryon accused his friend. "Very low."

"And oh-so-true." Serothlain grinned at him. "You know, Hasteth has a cousin…"

"Oh, please, spare me." The other ranger sighed, exasperated. "If this is another of your 'Let's spread the happiness' attempts, I think I might stab you."

"Marriage has even softened Cemendur," his friend told him with a small smile. "If he hadn't found your pretty … friend … he never would have stayed and we would have been deprived of his companionship forever."

Ciryon grinned at him. It was the general opinion of the younger recruits that it had been monumentally bad luck that had caused the commander to fall in love in the two very short weeks he had spent with their company. Once he had laid eyes on his future wife, however, all thoughts of returning to his own company had left his mind as if they had never existed. The two of them had exchanged a single look and had known they had been meant for each other and had married after a most unsuitably short courtship – and now _they_, the recruits would conclude, were stuck with him.

Love was all very nice and well, Ciryon thought with the carelessness of one who had never truly been in love, but sometimes it was downright inconvenient.

"And what a shame that would have been," Ciryon agreed, grinning down at his friend. Serothlain was a bit smaller than the average dúnadan, something for which he made up with a sharp tongue and – if necessity called for it – a sharp dagger. His face turned serious again. "Has there been any news?"

"What?" Serothlain asked distractedly, looking back at him from where he had been scanning the road once more. They were the picket line after all, and every single officer they had would have them drawn and quartered if they let anyone get past them. "About the disappearances? No, never fear. There is no news."

"I wonder if that is a good thing or a bad thing," the other man said, leaning onto his spear. "We are no closer to catching him – them – whomever than we were months ago. And since Belen's death…"

He trailed off, but Serothlain knew exactly what he was talking about. Since Haldar's brother had disappeared, everything had got from bad to worse to worst in just a few days. Everybody was afraid; not only the people in the village, but also the men and their superiors. Even Captain Daervagor had been spotted looking nervous, even though a good part of the men still considered that nothing but hearsay and refused to believe it until they had seen irrefutable proof. Then again, the one who had spotted said momentous event had been Halbarad, and the lad could usually be trusted about things like that.

"I know," he said softly. "Everybody's afraid. I would ask Hasteth to visit her relatives in the north, if I thought that she would listen and that it would actually help."

His friend had a point there, Ciryon admitted. It wasn't as if the disappearances were only happening close to them, and no one knew where the next one would occur. That made it only harder, and everybody so much madder.

"She is a stubborn one, isn't she?" he asked, mostly because he didn't know what else to say. "No matter how small she is."

Serothlain frowned at him, but since he was an honest man, he couldn't protest or deny the truth of his friend's words. While he was … well, not exactly _small _for a dúnadan, but rather not quite as tall as the others, Hasteth was smaller still. More than one of their friends had jokingly asked if a joining of the two of them was really a clever idea, especially considering that they wanted to have many children.

'Well,' Ciryon had mused at that very occasion, 'it is high time that we developed closer ties to the Dwarves, eh?'

Serothlain hadn't forgiven him for that particular comment for nearly two weeks.

"Oh yes," the smaller man finally only said, narrowed eyes fixed on his friend as if daring him to say something that he would undoubtedly consider 'clever and amusing'. "The next few weeks will be filled with joy, mark my words. As soon as my lovely bride realises that I would rather see her in Carn Dûm than here, I will be in real trouble. And just wait until Haldar returns. No matter what news he has, it can't be good. And if there is one thing the captain can't stand, it is bad news."

Ciryon winced openly.  
"Thank you, Sero. You just had to go ahead and say it, hadn't you?"

"Closing your eyes before the inevitable doesn't change anything," Serothlain told his friend in the tone of voice that Ciryon had already dubbed his 'wise-leader voice'. "Trust me on this, Ciryon. We'll be in real trouble before this … oh, Valar."

Ciryon had been far too busy grinning while his friend went on about their dreary fate to notice something he really should have: The sound of slow, measured footsteps that drew closer. The fact that they were coming from behind them – a direction that should, technically speaking, be safe – was only a weak excuse, since even orcs occasionally managed to outflank their prey. A better excuse was that, while Captain Daervagor didn't usually sneak on people, he managed to do it quite nicely when he put his mind to it.

The two young rangers straightened up and snapped to parade-ground attention. If one had looked in one of Middle-earth's larger encyclopaedias under "Complete concentration" or "Image of the perfect guards", one would probably have found a picture that quite closely resembled the one presenting itself to Captain Daervagor's eyes.

Unfortunately for the two of them, the captain's eyes were quite a bit sharper and a lot more suspicious than those of the average reader of an encyclopaedia.

The older ranger looked from one of his men to the other who were both more or less successfully trying to pretend that they hadn't just been talking about him when they should have been giving the road their undivided attention. He wasn't a man given to unnecessary words or speeches, and so he only narrowed his eyes the tiniest bit and looked at Serothlain.

"Report, Serothlain."

Some people, when angry or disappointed, yelled at you, Serothlain mused, and some gave longwinded speeches or hit you over the head with something hard or even spiky. Captain Daervagor, however, despite his quick temper, only looked at you in this particular way of his that made you wish that you had never been born. It was a lot harder to bear.

"Nothing noteworthy happened, sir," he reported, his voice clipped. "There has been no movement on the road or close to it and no messages from the other posts. I just returned from scouting the area to the east; there is nothing stirring there either. To all intents and purposes, sir, it is as quiet as the grave."

It dawned on him that this just might not have been the cleverest way to describe their surroundings, namely in exactly the same moment that Ciryon made an odd sound in the back of his throat and closed his eyes. It sounded something like a small mouse that had its tail trodden on. Captain Daervagor only narrowed his eyes further, causing Serothlain to shake with barely masked apprehension, before he turned away from them to look out over the sloping road beneath them.

It was silent for a little while, just long enough for Ciryon and his older friend to exchange increasingly uneasy looks. Serothlain turned his head, looking back over his shoulder into the direction where he knew their captain had left his horse. But neither his mount nor their own were anywhere to be seen, which told him that they were still safely hidden, and no further escort was visible. The young ranger frowned. His captain should have taken someone with him, especially now. If he fell or disappeared, they would be left leaderless and far more helpless than he wanted to imagine. They would appoint another to take his place or wait until someone had been sent from one of the other companies, but it certainly would be enough to throw them into temporary chaos.

"Haldar should be returning today," Daervagor finally said, his eyes still focussed on the dusty road. "There has been no movement? He knows better than to take the main road by himself, and this is the only alternative route that would make sense."

Ciryon had to agree with his superior. They had received word from Haldar several days ago, telling them a rough estimate of his date of arrival, so he should indeed be returning soon. And besides, when the captain told you something in this tone of voice, you didn't question and only nodded and obeyed.

"Nothing, sir." He shook his head in response to his superior's question. "But if he has indeed taken this road, he will need some time to pass the fallen trees. If he arrives today, he should pass us in a few hours at the latest."

"He will," the older man said with completely conviction. "I am sure about it. Before I forget it, Ciryon: As soon as you return to camp, I want you to find a few volunteers to clear the road. We can't have it impassable for any longer than necessary. It blocks traffic and severely limits our options."

Ciryon, conscious of his captain's sharp eyes, resisted the urge to either roll his eyes or ram his elbow into the grinning Serothlain's ribs.  
"Yes, sir."

Daervagor looked at the empty, silent road for a moment longer before he shook his head and turned back to the two younger rangers. The sun slowly went down behind him, and Serothlain had to blink to be able to look up at him. Well, the young ranger admitted to himself a second later, he had to look up at most Dúnedain. But against the glare of the sun the captain suddenly looked tired and vaguely old, even though he wasn't old by far, and if Serothlain didn't know any better, he would have said that he also looked … disquieted. Not a lot, of course, and not at all frightened or downright worried, but still.

Maybe Halbarad had been on to something after all.

"Very well," Daervagor said, unaware of the other ranger's thoughts, "I will check on the other posts, then. Ereneth and Hírgaer are stationed down by the creek today?"

"Aye, sir," Serothlain said. It was nothing extraordinary; the two brothers were almost always stationed together. "Commander Cemendur is having Lhanton deliver a message to the gates. Halbarad accompanied him, just … just to be sure."

The captain's face darkened almost imperceptibly. 'The gates' was a rather monumental name for a narrow ravine to the south-east; it was an easily controllable bottleneck that was therefore under constant supervision. Every time a troop of rangers set up camp in this area, the first thing they did was sent some warriors to establish a guard post there.

"I heard about it," Daervagor said, his voice short and sounding almost irritated. "He and I will be having words about leaving camp without notifying one's superior officers."

Ciryon and Serothlain exchanged a quick, sympathetic look that fairly screamed 'Poor lad'. They had been there when Halbarad had asked – and received – permission to join his friend. He hadn't asked their captain, no, but Commander Cemendur's word was just as good, especially considering that the lad had been off duty today. But Halbarad was young, almost too young to serve at all, and everybody got a little protective around him, even and especially their captain.

Ciryon quickly cast his mind around for something to say that would get the boy out of trouble and wouldn't simultaneously get him into it, but came up with nothing. Ah well, he decided, the lad would survive without his help. Probably, that was.

"Yes, sir," Serothlain said, clearly having come to the same somewhat cowardly decision to let their young comrade fend for himself. "Definitely, sir. Can't have the young ones disrespecting the chain of command, sir."

Daervagor looked at the other ranger for a few moments before his stern face broke into a smile that was all the more stunning for its rarity. It made him look a lot younger and – if such a thing was even possible – even less like a person you would like to cross.

"It is so very nice to find this kind of encouragement. I will surely mention it when I talk to him." The two younger men's faces fell, and his smile widened for a second before he continued. "As soon as Haldar arrives, I wish to see him."

"Yes, sir." Ciryon nodded, but cocked his head to the side when his eyes that had been surveying the road spotted something. "I think you won't have to wait long, sir. But it seems that he has found some … friends."

The others turned back around, and a second later Serothlain gave a low whistle.  
"Either that, or Lord Elrond has sent half his army with him. The Valar know that I don't even want to know why."

"If Rivendell's army consists of a dozen warriors, all of us are in more serious trouble than we thought."

Daervagor said the words in a mild tone of voice, but there was steel beneath it. It shut the two friends up more effectively than a pair of blows to the head would have. A few minutes later, the six figures had drawn close enough that the three rangers could see them properly, and they could see that what they had thought to be five elves riding next and slightly behind Haldar were in fact four – and a young man.

It had been hard to see from a distance – and still was, actually – because he was dressed so similarly and held himself in almost the same way, and on horseback it was almost impossible to tell that he was in fact mortal. On the ground, Ciryon knew, it would be easily apparent, for no one could move with quite the same fluid grace as the Eldar, no matter how long he had lived with them. His face was too angular as well, he noticed as the riders drew closer, with the barest hint of a shadow covering his cheeks, but he was young still and with the long hair and the elvish clothes and gear one could almost be fooled.

Captain Daervagor didn't look fooled, now that he thought about it. The older man was looking at the approaching riders in much the same way he would have looked at a group of orcs singing bawdy drinking songs, and the closer they drew, the grimmer his face became. There was a muscle moving in his jaw as he clenched his teeth, something that every ranger in their camp knew was a very bad sign indeed, and Ciryon and Serothlain actually inched a bit away from him. Elbereth knew what had put their captain into this kind of mood, but they most certainly didn't want to find out.

The riders were almost right beneath them when Haldar reined in his mount and the entire group came to a stop. Haldar knew where their picket line was, after all, and also knew better than to try and cross it in this kind of company without at least the attempt at an explanation. For long moments, Daervagor didn't move, but finally he took a deep breath and began to move, picking his way around the trees that covered the little hill. The captain was already halfway down the hill when the two younger rangers thought to follow him, the sudden action having surprised them. Captain Daervagor was a stern man with a quick temper, and this kind of silent brooding was very much against his nature.

In a matter of moments, they had clambered down the hill after their captain with quite a bit less grace than usual. They came to a stop next to Daervagor, their boots kicking up clouds of dust that filled the air around them. Serothlain did his best not to cough – that wouldn't look very good in front of Lord Elrond's men, now would it? – and scanned the impassive elven faces above him and the two human ones that didn't really look much more revealing. The young man – the boy, really – looked calm and composed, but there was something about him that suggested that that wasn't entirely the case. Haldar also looked calm and composed, but Serothlain had known him long enough to know that he was anything but. And who could blame him, he asked himself wryly as he gave his friend a quick smile, with the captain looking at him like this?

The six riders dismounted and quietly stood by their mounts, but Daervagor didn't exactly smile at them. Well, he did bare his teeth in some way or other, but not even Ciryon – who was a quite optimistic and well-meaning kind of person – would have called that a smile.

"Haldar," he said, looking at the dark-haired ranger. "You are right on time."

Ciryon didn't know Haldar as well as Serothlain, but even a blind man would have seen the wince cross his face. It was quite hard not to wince when your superior officer – who, mind you, could make your life quite miserable – bared his teeth at you in quite this way.

"We made good time, sir," Haldar said, nodding his head. His eyes flickered over his companions to lock onto the young man before he quickly returned his attention to his captain. "Sir, may I introduce Lord Elladan and his brother, Lord Elrohir…"

"We have met," one of the dark-haired elves interjected smoothly, taking a step and grasping the captain's forearm in a warriors' grip. "Well met, Daervagor."

"Well met, sons of Elrond," the ranger responded automatically. "It has been some time since you have graced us with your presence, to our grief and the Orcs' contentment."

Ciryon shot his friend a quick look and was fairly happy to see that Serothlain, too, seemed to have problems convincing his jaw not to drop. These two were the legendary twin sons of Elrond? Neither of them had already joined the companies the last time the two elven warriors had visited this particular troop, and they had always listened with envy and a fair deal of incredulity to the warriors of other troops who claimed to have hunted with the two elves. The young ranger made a conscious effort to slow his racing heart. What else could happen today, that the blond one was King Thranduil?

"We are here now," said the other twin, reaching out to grasp the captain's hand as soon as his brother released it. "Well met, old friend. It has been too long."

"Indeed, Elladan." Daervagor nodded, a smile spreading over his face. The two other rangers exchanged quick looks. That was two smiles in less than half an hour; this was beginning to get scary. "We are always happy about your company."

"That you have," the elf said, returning the smile. "And our swords, should the need arise. My father sends his regards and greetings, but I think that this has to wait for a more … private setting."

"Indeed," the ranger repeated. His eyes wandered over the other two elves before he quickly looked at the young man in their midst, a strange look in his eyes before he regained control over himself. Ciryon noticed for the first time that there was a bandage wrapped around his left forearm. What he noticed immediately was the way Daervagor's already stony features became darker still, and the way Haldar intensely began to study the tips of his boots. "I see you have brought some … reinforcements, my lord."

The twins exchanged a look.  
"You could say that," one of them said with a small, humourous quirk of his brows. "Captain Daervagor, this here," he gestured at the fair-haired elf to his left, "is Lord Legolas of Mirkwood, and this," he pointed at the silver-haired elf standing next to him, "is Captain Celylith, also of Mirkwood, his loyal friend and protector."

Both elves and the ranger bowed to each other politely, even if a certain caution lay over the entire scene. Lord Legolas' loyal friend and protector muttered something in an elven dialect Serothlain had never heard before when he straightened up again, but even so, he didn't have too much trouble figuring out what he'd said. The dark-haired elf ignored him and continued.

"And I believe you have already met our adopted brother Estel? When he heard that there might be some orcs to hunt, he couldn't resist and wouldn't rest until we allowed him to join us." The elf shot the boy an unreadable look. "Some more time with his parents' people might curb those strange, vaguely suicidal tendencies of his."

This time, Serothlain didn't have any trouble understanding what the young man muttered.

"Yes," Daervagor said, his eyes fixed quite intently on the young man's face. "I think that might be a wise idea. Welcome, Estel."

"Well met, Captain." The young man nodded courteously. If he was nervous – as any sensible man would have been in his position –, he hid it extraordinarily well. "It has been some time."

"About a year and a half," Daervagor said. There was something in his voice that neither of the two younger rangers could identify. "Both of us had to leave unexpectedly, if I remember correctly."

"Yes." The younger man bowed his head quietly. "I believe you do."

It was silent for a few seconds until the silence began to turn slightly uncomfortable, and one of the fair-haired elves cleared his throat. It was Lord Legolas, Serothlain decided a second before he spoke, the one who needed a "loyal friend and protector".

"The road is blocked about two miles back," he said, his voice light and sounding as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Has there been a storm lately?"

"Yes, indeed," Daervagor said, turning to look at the fair-haired elf. "Quite a bad one, actually. Thank you for informing us, my lord. Ciryon here," he gestured at the tall man standing silently at his back, "has already volunteered to assemble some men to clear the road."

Ciryon smiled wanly, earning himself a sympathetic look from most of the ones present. One of the twins – Lord Elrohir? – smiled back at him before he returned his attention to the captain.

"Where is your camp located at the moment, Captain?"

"Not too far away, my lord. I will escort you there myself."

The twins exchanged another quick look.  
"Thank you," the other one said. "That would be most appreciated."

The twins nodded at the other two rangers while the others remounted their horses, and the two of them gave them a deep bow. Ciryon frowned inwardly as he straightened back up. Just why wouldn't the captain wait until tonight to discuss whatever it was that was so important? Haldar knew the way and could lead them without trouble. This really couldn't mean anything good.

The captain was quietly conversing with Haldar, telling him to ride on ahead and that they would meet up a bit further down the road as soon as he had collected his horse. A moment later he turned back around, gave the others a quick nod and his men a look and was gone, moving quickly back up the hill. The elves and their human companion waited until he had passed out of sight before they took their leave of them with short, polite words and urged on their horses, following the dusty road curving around the hillside.

Haldar was about to follow them, but Serothlain caught his horse's reins and stopped him.  
"I am glad you managed to return to us safely and in one piece."

"You don't know half of it," the other ranger replied darkly, but a smile pushed the frown to the side. "So am I, my friend. So am I."

Ciryon smiled up at him as well as he quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.  
"So, how was the journey?"

Haldar looked at his companions that were slowly making their way down the road. He looked back at his fellow rangers, an unreadable expression on his face.  
"Very, very … long."

That was all he said, and without another word he spurred on his horse to catch up with the elves and the young man. Ciryon and Serothlain exchanged a quick look before they silently began to climb back up the hill to reassume their posts.

Spending a longer period of time with elves definitely rubbed off on you.  
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**This, Legolas decided as he ducked out of the tent Celylith and he had been assigned, had to have been the most uncomfortable discussion he had ever witnessed. Not the most violent one or the most dramatic one – he sat beside his father in council, after all – but definitely the most uncomfortable one.

Well, there had been that one a few decades back between the Dwarves' envoys and his father and some of his councillors, but that had ended with everybody trying to kill everybody else, so that didn't really count in his opinion. It had been slightly more entertaining, though.

It had been almost painful to watch, especially since Celylith and he had quickly been forgotten. Under normal circumstances, Legolas would have felt vaguely insulted, but right now he was quite glad. He didn't know what to do or say anyway, and to be relegated to the role of onlookers was actually quite reassuring. He didn't know a lot about the Rangers and their ways, just as he didn't know a lot about mortals in general, and the last thing he wanted was to commit a diplomatic blunder his father's council would work on repairing for the next few decades – because Daervagor knew very well who he was.

That was one thing anybody would admit: The captain wasn't an idiot or slow-witted at all. Neither was he overly patient, calm or understanding, which was one of the main reasons why only self-control and politeness had stopped the conversation from descending into a shouting match. The other reason was that, no matter what, he was too respectful to say to Aragorn what he obviously thought, namely that he was an idiot and should either be put somewhere safe and remote for his own sake (like Lothlórien) or somewhere safe and remote for everybody else's sake (like an asylum).

Legolas didn't particularly like the man – he actually thought that he quite disliked him –, but he couldn't say that he wasn't on to something.

Be that as it may, it had been an interesting conversation. He had been quite impressed by the captain's ability to respectfully suggest that Aragorn was insane, and to show the very same respect while telling the twins that they were stupid to even bring the young man with them. The fact that Haldar had dutifully told him about the little incident they had had with the wargs hadn't really helped matters either. The twins, annoyed by the man's dark looks and attitude and as the grandsons of Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood experts at respectfully telling people where to stuff it, had politely told him that all this hadn't been their idea, and that Aragorn needn't have come to his people's aid (like any good leader would have) if said people – or, more precisely, Captain Daervagor – had done their job a little more thoroughly.

The captain hadn't lost his temper then, but it had quite clearly been a close thing. In the end nothing had been resolved and everybody had just stared at each other in a way that didn't necessarily suggest that they were, in fact, allies. Daervagor had eventually been called away by one of his men. His calm mask safely back in place, he had handed them over to one of the rangers whom he ordered to find them some lodgings, and had, with a look in Aragorn's direction, said that they would continue this discussion later, it it would please his guests. Aragorn himself had barely said a word, something that first perplexed and then worried the elf. The young man was quite a vocal person, and to Legolas' knowledge had never shied away from a possibility to tell someone just what he thought – especially when it was about something important to him.

He wasn't quite sure what it was that lay between the captain and Aragorn, but he was firmly determined to find out. The man thought he was hiding it well, but he really wasn't, at least not when you knew him as well as Legolas did. Now he only had to find him.

And that, Legolas admitted to himself, was the problem. The camp wasn't exceedingly large, but it was located in a glade in a small forest and arranged around the few trees that were standing there. The location was quite well-chosen and easily defendable – Daervagor did indeed know what he was doing – but it was also quite confusing, especially considering that all tents looked the same and all the rangers wore similar clothing. Night was falling quickly now, and in only a few minutes it would be time for campfires and torches to be lit.

Deciding that it didn't really matter which way he went, Legolas turned left and headed for the cluster of tents next to one of the entrances to the clearing. The twins had been assigned their own tent while Haldar had invited Aragorn to stay with him, but the young man hadn't been there either. His brothers didn't know where he had disappeared to and were right now planning how to let their old friend, the captain, know that he had seriously displeased them – in a thoroughly polite and friendly way, of course. Celylith had gone off to care for the horses, or so he'd claimed. Why his friend needed so much time to "care for the horses" lately he truly did not know, and he had the sneaking suspicion that he didn't want to find out, either.

He didn't really care, he decided. As long as Celylith didn't find himself another "innocent, adorable, monstrous little creature", he really, _really_ didn't care. Were there abominable creatures in a Ranger camp? Well, if there were, Celylith would most likely find them and…

"Uhm … Master Elf? Can I help you?"

Legolas was brought out of his daydreams by the voice of a man, and with a start he returned to reality – not very unhappily, either. Almost anything was better than contemplating what kind of horrible creature his friend could have found this time.

The man who had addressed him was – unsurprisingly – a ranger. Tall and with dark hair and grey eyes it would have been hard to take him for something else. He was young, too, perhaps a few years older than Aragorn, and he was looking at Legolas with a mixture of uncertainty, curiosity and mild awe. Not even the Dúnedain were above such feelings, it seemed.

"Master Elf?" the young ranger tried again. He looked quite uncertain, as if he wasn't sure that this was a thing one should be saying to an elf.

"Forgive me, Master Ranger." Legolas looked at him and gave him a smile that was meant to reassure. "I was lost in thought."

"It happens to the best of us." The other nodded and smiled back at him, appearing greatly relieved by the fact that the fair-haired elf was now smiling at him instead of frowning darkly at nothing. Giving Legolas a quick look, he bowed. "I am Lhanton, son of Mallor, at your service."

Legolas returned the small bow.  
"I am Legolas of Mirkwood, son of Mallor, and very pleased to make your acquaintance. But perhaps you can help me indeed. I am looking for one of my companions."

"They shouldn't be too hard to spot, my lord," Lhanton said with another smile. It looked a big like a preemptive measure. "We aren't too many here at the moment, especially not with some of us still out at their posts. And elves … well, you tend to stand out in a crowd."

"Oh?" Legolas arched an eyebrow. "It may be that we do indeed, Master Ranger. But I am not looking for one of my elven companions; I am looking for Estel. Have you by any chance seen him?"

"Oh, you mean the boy … I mean, the young man that accompanied you and Lord Elrond's sons?" Lhanton asked eagerly. Celylith would be quite unhappy at having been thus ignored, Legolas thought wryly. "You are in luck, my lord. I think I might know where he is. I can take you, if you'd like."

"I wouldn't want to keep you from your duties…"

Legolas was actually quite happy about the offer – stumbling around this camp without any idea where to go would not make a very good impression, especially considering that Aragorn would be able to blend in so very well this time – but he didn't want to get the young ranger into trouble either. He could almost imagine Captain Daervagor staring at the boy with those cold grey eyes of his.

"Oh, I am quite at my leisure," Lhanton assured him. "I am off duty. I think I saw your friend over at the Argonath with Haldar."

Legolas followed him, his brow furrowing, and they turned around and went back the way he had just come. It took him several moments to fully comprehend what the young ranger had just told him.  
"Excuse me, but did you just say you saw Estel at the _Argonath_?"

He always been quite good at geography, having fallen in love with the perfectly drawn maps his teachers had shown him when he had been an elfling, and unless someone had taken Middle-earth, turned it upside down and shaken everything around a bit, the Pillars of the Kings were still located at the Falls of Rauros – or, to make it simple, far, far away.

Lhanton, who was half a step ahead of him, turned his head and smiled sheepishly.  
"Yes, my lord. The Argonath is a name Ciryon and I invented for the two tall trees that flank the eastern entrance of the clearing. They are quite old and, if you only look hard enough, they almost look like men." Legolas only looked at him, and he mumbled, shame-faced, "'Tis a jest, my lord."

"I see," Legolas said, thinking for the first time that some of Aragorn's stranger behaviour mightn't be connected to the twins after all. It might just as well be genetic. "And I take it Captain Daervagor and your other superiors don't know about it?"

Lhanton actually stopped in mid-stepped and turned around, looking appalled at the very idea.  
"Of course not, my lord. And…"

"I will not tell them either," Legolas finished his sentence, smiling. "Do not worry."

The young ranger smiled back, relieved, and continued on his way, trusting Legolas to follow him.  
"I wasn't really worried, my lord. The captain might actually find it amusing."

That he might, Legolas admitted. Then again, if he had assessed the captain's character correctly, he might not and might assign the young man to Ciryon's entirely voluntary troop of men responsible for clearing the road.

"I saw a village on our way here, no more than a mile away," he went on, deciding to spare the young man this conversation. "Do you customarily make camp so close to your settlements?"

"No, my lord." The young man shook his head as they made their way through the camp. "It is considered too risky, and we usually move about too much anyway. But there have been reports of attacks in this area, and the captain and Commander Cemendur thought it prudent to relocate to this area."

"What kind of attacks?" Legolas asked, side-stepping a cold fireplace and doing his very best not to think about a Ringwraith and Aragorn in the same sentence. Or to think about a Ringwraith at all. "Has anybody survived to tell the tale?"

Lhanton shot him a strange look.  
"Of course, my lord; how else would we have heard about them? There were some attacks by highwaymen that, if you ask me, were foolhardy more than dangerous. One attack was repelled by two rangers from another company who chanced to come upon them, and another by a few of our women when they were ambushed on their way back to their village."

"Did you say by some of your women?" Legolas asked, just to make sure. Dúnedain were looking more and more like a strange lot.

"Yes, my lord." Lhanton grinned at him. "Our women know how to take care of themselves. If I were a common highwayman, I would think twice about attacking one of our women armed with a knife." His grin widened. "But I must be fair. They didn't only have knives; there was also a bow or two. The poor men didn't stand a chance."

"I see," Legolas said without much surprise. He had never expected that female dúnedain didn't know how to defend themselves; the life they were leading was dangerous, after all, and many of their men left to join the Rangers. "Have there been any more attacks?"

"Not after that last one, no. If they are clever, they left this area as quickly as possible."

"In my experience, Master Ranger, highwaymen are very rarely clever."

"In mine as well, my lord," Lhanton agreed with a small smile. "Well, I wouldn't lament it overly much if they were still around. I could use a good fight; we all could."

There was nothing to say to that, at least nothing that wouldn't bring up a subject that Lhanton clearly didn't want to touch with a ten-foot pole, and so Legolas held his tongue. A few seconds later they had crossed the entirety of the camp – which really wasn't that great a feat – and had arrived at the eastern entrance to the little glade. Legolas actually stopped for a second to scrutiny the "Argonath" that were still clearly visible in the gathering gloom, and he finally nodded and turned back to the ranger who had been looking at him with somewhat apprehensive eyes.

"I must congratulate you and your friend, Master Ranger," Legolas said and inclined his head seriously. "Your eyes are keen indeed. While I have never seen the Argonath with my own eyes, I have seen their likeness many times in books and scrolls, and those two trees look _exactly_ like them."

Lhanton, while intelligent enough to know he was being had, clearly didn't really know how to react to the teasing, and so he merely inclined his head in equal seriousness.  
"Thank you, my lord. We do what we can."

Turning back around, he began to lead Legolas over to the left, where a large boulder was lying on its side under the shade of one of the large trees, almost completely overgrown with moss. On it sat two dark-haired men who were deep in conversation, who both looked up when Legolas and his companion drew near. Haldar looked as emotionless as ever, his face so inscrutable that it might have been been mistaken for his captain's, while Aragorn looked faintly guilty. He should, too, Legolas grouched inwardly. Without Lhanton's help, he was quite sure he would never have found him, hidden away and almost invisible in the deep shadow that the huge tree cast.

Aragorn was definitely spending too much time with the twins, the wood-elf decided. He was becoming too sneaky by far.

Aragorn, still looking faintly like a rabbit finding itself face-to-face with a bird of prey, clearly decided that offence was the best defence and gave the two of them a smile.  
"Legolas! There you are!"

If there hadn't two dúnedain listening to every word they said, Legolas would have told his friend just what he thought of his fake-innocent behaviour. This way, he only smiled so brightly that it seemed to light up the darkening glade.

"Indeed, _mellon nín_. And you are here, or so it appears."

"Indeed," Aragorn echoed his friend's words, grinning. He turned to Lhanton, who had watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow, and added, "I believe we have not yet been introduced. I am called Estel."

"So I have heard," the other ranger said with a quick look at Legolas. "Welcome to the Angle, Estel. I am Lhanton."

"I have been telling him about you, Lhanton, so don't think about it," Haldar interjected, giving the younger man a sincere smile. "He has been warned."

"Warned?" Lhanton repeated, eyes wide with injured innocence. "About what, my friend? I must say, I am offended!"

"'Warned' is maybe the wrong word," Aragorn said, trying to diffuse the situation. "I would rather say that he … mentioned … you." He looked at the other ranger and grinned. "And your affinity for playing cards."

"Ah, _that_ is an entirely different matter!" Lhanton said with a grin of his own. "I do enjoy a friendly game of cards from time to time."

"Or dice. Or other games of chance. Or taking bets," Haldar muttered under his breath.

Aragorn's grin widened, and he looked at Legolas with a sudden gleam in his eyes.  
"Oh, then you will get along wonderfully with Legolas and his companion."

Legolas only smiled back at him, a gleam in his own eyes that didn't look very friendly. Haldar looked from one to the other, his face composed as always, before he got up from the large rock he was sitting on and gestured at Lhanton.

"If you will excuse us for a moment, I have a few things to discuss with Lhanton here. You are part of Ciryon's happy little group as well, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes." Lhanton nodded glumly. Legolas thought that his earlier concerns had been for nothing, then. "I 'volunteered', of course."

Haldar cocked an eyebrow at him.  
"What did you do? And to whom?"

"Apparently," Lhanton said with a wry grimace, "I 'disobeyed the chain of command'." Haldar looked confused, and he added, "I allow young Halbarad to accompany me to the gates, without consulting the captain first." He sighed dramatically. "I really don't know what I was _thinking_."

"You didn't ask the commander for permission?" Haldar was apparently having a hard time grasping the essence of what his younger friend was telling him.

"Of course I did!" Lhanton exclaimed. "Varda's stars above, do you think I'm suicidal? The lad asked Cemendur for permission and received it. But you know how the captain can be."

Haldar only grunted wordlessly and, with a last nod at the elf and the ranger, led his companion over to the other "Argonath", beginning to question him almost immediately about what he had missed. Legolas watched them go – or rather watched Aragorn watch them go – before he slowly began to shake his head.

"I think I must apologise to you, my friend, and to your brothers. I always thought that they were to be blamed for … well, you being you, but after a few hours in this place I think that you never really stood a chance."

"Funny," Aragorn grumbled and leaned back against a tree at his back. It wasn't quite as tall as the one standing next to the boulder, but it was a close thing. "Very funny indeed."

"I am being serious, Estel," Legolas told him. "Rangers are strange. One moment they are being serious and solemn, looking at you with their big grey eyes, the next they are … well … strange."

Aragorn threw back his head and laughed, and Legolas' smile became a lot more genuine. He hadn't heard his friend laugh like that in far too long.  
"Now you know how most people feel when they first encounter elves."

"An interesting, if inaccurate, comparison," Legolas said mildly, not willing to allow the man to distract him. Aragorn knew very well that he wanted to talk to him, and was doing his best to lead the conversation away from any topic that might prove dangerous. "You disappeared very quickly after the … conversation with the Captain."

It was only a statement, but Aragorn could clearly hear the question lurking under the surface.  
"Haldar showed me around," the young ranger offered somewhat weakly.

"I believe that showing you around the camp would be a bit more effective if it was one during the daytime, when you could actually see something," Legolas said mildly.

"He also introduced me to some people," Aragorn went on, ignoring his comment. "The sooner I talk to people, the less likely they will start wondering about who I am."

"So, whom did you meet?" Legolas asked, voice full of – partly fake – interest.

"Commander Cemendur," the ranger said quickly. "And…"

"And?"

"Well … not a lot of other people. I know a few others from past hunting trips, but I haven't seen them yet."

"That sounds like a productive afternoon," Legolas said, eyeing his friend with a mixture of amusement and faint surprise. He would never cease to be amazed at his friend's ability to ignore the most obvious hints if he only wanted to. "You and Captain Daervagor," he finally went on, opting for bluntness that even Aragorn wouldn't be able to ignore, "you've met before, haven't you?"

Aragorn looked at his elven friend and the determination shining in his silver-blue eyes that was clearly visible even in the falling darkness, and relented.

"Yes," he admitted softly. "Well ... you know that _ada_ told me about my heritage when I was twenty." He shrugged self-deprecatingly. "You also know that I didn't take it very well."

Legolas smiled a little.  
"It was when we met. It was a quite memorable experience, believe me."

"I was there." Aragorn returned the smile. "And it was indeed." He shrugged again. "Well, after all … that, it took a while for _ada_ to let me out of his sight again." Legolas mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'And I wonder why', but he ignored it. "But he did, finally – you'd returned to Mirkwood by then – and I started hunting with the twins and the Rangers. Nobody but the captains knew who I was…"

"And thank the Valar for that!"

"…but a year and a half ago, we hunted with small group, some from this company, some from the one stationed at Sarn Ford. Daervagor was the leader of the rangers from this company. I … had to leave sooner than I'd thought, and, as you know, have been unable to return before now."

"That was when the twins got themselves into that spot of trouble, wasn't it?" Legolas asked.

"It was." Aragorn nodded. That was one way of putting it, after all. "I just _had_ to return home and so I left, in the middle of the hunt."

"Surely he does not blame you for that?" Legolas asked, incredulous. The twins didn't talk about it and neither did Lord Elrond or Aragorn, but he knew that what had happened to the twins had been rather bad, so bad that Aragorn had dropped everything and rushed back to Imladris. It had been one of the reasons why he himself had travelled to Rivendell last summer, just before the entire mess with Cornallar and his men. "He could not."

"No. Yes. I … I do not know," Aragorn admitted. "We somehow never really … got along, if you want to put it like that."

"But he respects you, Estel," Legolas told him. "He does, otherwise he would have said earlier what he really thinks, namely that you are insane and ought to be locked away."

Aragorn gave him a wry smile.  
"Strange, that was exactly what I thought he was thinking." The smile disappeared quickly. "He respects what I stand for, Legolas, and who my father was, but me? I don't know. The other captains … that was something else, but Daervagor is different."

"Why?" Legolas asked simply. "He is just one captain among many, now that there is – officially – no chieftain. He is no more and no less important than his colleague from the company at Sarn Ford, or that is what the twins told me."

"Oh, but he is," Aragorn said, but his face was completely expressionless, a clear indication that he did not want to discuss this. "Let us talk about this some other time, my friend. Right now I am too tired for it." Legolas' face immediately became apprehensive, and so he quickly added, "And no, I do not want to talk about my dreams, either."

Legolas looked at him sharply, clearly trying to find a way around this particular problem, and eventually shrugged. If the man didn't want to talk about it now, fine, but, Elbereth be his witness, he would make him talk about it later. There weren't many beings that could be quite as single-minded as a determined wood-elf.

"Very well, _mellon nín_," he conceded. "What do you want to talk about?"

Aragorn never got the chance to answer the question, because in this moment their attention was redirected to Haldar and Lhanton, who were just now being joined by another young ranger who skidded to a stop next to them. While he gasped for air, gratefully allowing Lhanton to steady him with a hand on his elbow, Legolas and Aragorn got to their feet and quickly made their way to their side without having to exchange a word.

"Steady, lad," Haldar said, giving the younger man a long look. "What is the matter?"

"There's trouble," the young ranger gasped out, wiping a strand of sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. It was cooling down now, but the heat of the day still lingered and made running about tiresome and sweaty work.

"When isn't there?" Lhanton asked, a question that was clearly meant rhetorically. "Halbarad, my friend, if this is you trying to escape your father's wrath, I will…"

"Oh, I wish it were," Halbarad said, his eyes wandering over the others and only widening a bit when they came to rest on Aragorn and his elven companion. "He wants you over at the other entrance, Haldar. Ereneth and Hírgaer just returned, and they are not alone."

Haldar was already moving, having nodded at Aragorn and Legolas. It took the younger ranger a second to catch up with him, and Lhanton, too, was trailing after them, a look of barely veiled, almost fearful anxiety on his face.

"Who is with them?" Haldar asked, his voice ripe with the sentiments that were easily visible on his younger friend's face.

"Amlaith from the company stationed closer to the South Downs," Halbarad answered promptly. "He has news."

Haldar's face became even more expressionless if such a thing was possible, and Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a look while they hurried after the other rangers. Bearers of bad news had a particular look to them, and this young ranger couldn't have sported it more clearly if he'd tried.

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_dúnadan (pl.: dúnedain) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
gwanur - (twin) brother  
mellon nín - my friend_

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There was a problem with my reviews, so I apologise for not replying to some of the more pressing ones sooner. FF-net just started sending out the alerts a few days ago. •shrugs• I'll never understand this website, I'm afraid. So, as I said, there will be the Rivendell scene in the next chapter, plus a lot more of the Rangers and Halbarad and the resolution of this little mini-cliffy. And before you protest: It's not a real one. Nu-uh. Not at all. •shakes head• Reviews are, as always, hugely appreciated. Thanks!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**What in the name of Morgoth himself is wrong with the profile pages? Am I really the only one who can't access the email addresses? All right, this is how it is: I sent the review replies via instant message, or whatever FF-net's term for it is, even though it takes longer and I don't really like it. I really do hope they fix it soon (or my computer gets a grip). I know, I know: Fat chance. •grimaces•  
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	12. To Be, To Seem

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**I am currently a little overwhelmed by coursework and everything connected to it. Plus, I got 'volunteered' for a number of long essays - and if your professor asks you in front of everybody, you can hardly say "Well, actually, I don't really want to do that, but thanks anyway." We are organising an archaeological exhibition that's supposed to open in October, and things are developing not nearly as quickly as they ought to. But we finally agreed on a title - after about five months. •grimaces• Yes, it's going THAT well.**

**Hmm, yes, Daervagor. I actually quite like him, but I have to admit that I am, naturally, biased. I don't think that the elves like him very much at the moment, especially after this chapter. •winces• The man is either very brave or very stupid. Possibly even both. Anyway, the dear captain is indeed a bit different, i.e. related to some other people. That should become clear(-er) in this chapter. I wanted to write a scene about Rivendell, but Elrond refused to talk to me and so did all the others. I gave up after a while and decided to write more about the rangers, sorry again. I don't know WHY they don't want to be in this story any more than they have to. •shrugs innocently•**

**Still, that will avail them nothing; I will get them in the end. Before that happens, though, we have this chapter, which is full to the brim with rangers. So, Daervagor is doing his best to become unpopular, Aragorn is uncharacteristically quiet, we meet a lot of new (unusual) rangers, see more of Halbarad and Ciryon, Aragorn decides that Legolas was right and somebody has a nightmare. •g• It's not too hard to guess who, I know.**

**Have fun and review, please! **

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Chapter 12

By the time they reached the other end of the camp, the sun had set completely and the darkness of night filled the little glade. If anybody had looked up, they would have seen the first stars shine down on them – not that anybody did, mind you. Rangers didn't seem to believe in loitering, gawking or eavesdropping, Legolas noticed, but there seemed to be more people than strictly necessary close to the west entrance of the camp.

They were disguising their interest quite well, of course, but Legolas had commanded enough warriors and had been in enough military camps to know when soldiers were looking for an excuse to be somewhere. One of the rangers, a middle-aged man with long dark hair who was in the process of carefully stoking a fire that was already burning brightly, noticed his knowing look and answered it by looking even more unconcerned and stoical than he already did. He didn't stop stoking the fire, either, Legolas noticed, amused. Around him, other men lugged kindling toward the fires and stacked it around the fireplaces, sharpened their already razor-sharp weapons, groomed their horses and generally did lots of very useful things that they, technically speaking, didn't really have to do right here and now.

Except for the warriors who were absolutely _not _eavesdropping – Legolas was sure that any ranger accused of such a shameful thing would deny it in outrage – there were five people who actually looked as if they belonged here. It was easy to discern, too; they were the ones looking as if they wanted to be anywhere but here.

Two of them, Legolas already knew, namely Captain Daervagor and his second-in-command, Cemendur. The captain looked as inscrutable as ever, but there was something about him that suggested that he wasn't feeling as calm as he looked. Commander Cemendur did his best to copy his superior's expression – or rather the lack of expression – but he was younger, and apparently not as experienced as Daervagor. He was slightly taller than the captain, and was just now running a hand through his dark-brown hair in a movement that spoke of underlying nervousness.

Next to the two of them three younger men stood next to their mounts – or at least Legolas thought that they were younger. He wasn't all that adept at guessing the age of humans, something that hadn't improved much even during the last few years. One of them looked dusty, tired and thoroughly exhausted and was leaning against the flank of his equally dusty and tired horse. This had to be the messenger that had so unexpectedly appeared, he reasoned.

The other two young men who were standing next to each other had to be the rangers who had encountered him, then. Legolas was already about to dismiss them as having been at the wrong place at the wrong time – that this really wasn't anything good or harmless became more easily apparent by the second –, but just as he was about to return his attention to the captain, he did a double take. One of the two, the slightly shorter one who was more compactly built than the _Dúnedain _usually were, actually had fair hair. It was more light brown than actually blond, but in comparison with the other men who were uniformly dark-haired it was all the more stunning. His eyes, too, looked more greenish than actually grey. His companion was even taller than the average dúnadan, almost as tall as Aragorn, but while he looked more normal with his dark hair and tall, lean stature, his eyes were out of the ordinary, too. They weren't quite of the same colour than the shorter man's, being too dark to be actually green, but they weren't grey, that much was sure.

Realising that he was staring, Legolas quickly averted his eyes and followed Aragorn and the other three rangers over to where Daervagor and his commander stood. Some of his surprise must have shown on his face – and had probably been mirrored on Aragorn's, he assumed –, because the two young men straightened their backs almost imperceptibly and their faces became almost completely expressionless. There was a certain long-sufferance hanging about them, though, as if they were used to being regarded in such a fashion, but there was something darker in the eyes of the smaller man that was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.

As soon as he reached Aragorn's side and had positioned himself next to the young man so that Daervagor could see him clearly – there was no reason not to let the captain know from the start where exactly he was standing – and as soon as he saw the expression on the two older rangers' faces, he dismissed his previous thoughts as unimportant. If he knew anything at all, they were in serious trouble, and the last thing he would have to worry about was the way these two young rangers looked.

Daervagor turned half around as he heard them coming, something that seemed to please the breathless and dusty messenger quite a lot. It seemed that the younger ranger hadn't valued the undivided attention he had been receiving from the captain.

"Haldar," the captain said in a manner of greeting, his eyes wandering over the three other rangers and Legolas nonchalantly. They paused only a second longer on Aragorn, and Legolas had to nod to himself approvingly. The man was good, that much was sure. That didn't make him even an inch more likable, though.

"Sir."

Haldar nodded his head, either ignoring or unaware of his captain's brief moment of distraction. He didn't say more, something that Legolas could understand only too well. He was an elf, and therefore not very impressed by the look that Daervagor shot the younger dúnadan that clearly said that he was at least an hour late and would pay for it later, too, but if he had been a man … well, he was willing to admit that even he might have been feeling slightly ill at ease. And coming from the son of Thranduil that meant quite a lot.

"Good," was all that the captain said somewhat cryptically, already turning back to his commander and the other three men. He nodded at the two rangers who had escorted the messenger here. "Hírgaer, Ereneth, you are dismissed. Go find your troop leader for your next assignment."

"Yes, sir," said the fair-haired one and inclined his head. A friendly jab into his companion's ribcage later the two of them were gone, disappearing so quickly in the darkness that they might as well have been swallowed up by it.

Daervagor seemed to forget about them as soon as they had started moving and now turned his attention to the messenger himself.  
"You are travelling alone?"

"Yes, sir," the younger man said, his voice rough and exhausted. "My captain thought it unwise, all things considering, but we have no men to spare."

Daervagor nodded.  
"Very well. Your horse will be taken care of."

He nodded at one of the ostentatiously not-listening rangers who promptly stepped forward, one of his hands reaching for the other ranger's mount. The messenger seemed to hesitate for a moment – Rangers seemed just as disinclined as Elves to hand over their horses to unknown people, Legolas noted – but he finally accepted and handed over the worn leather reins. The man led the animal away, following the other two rangers, and Daervagor returned his attention to the rest of them.

"I believe we should take this to a more private location. Halbarad, go and find the Lords Elladan and Elrohir and ask them to join us in my tent." The young ranger nodded and hurried off, and Daervagor turned to Lhanton. "Lhanton, find Serothlain and bring him to my tent as well. I am afraid I shall have need of him."

Lhanton nodded and, after a last nod in their direction, disappeared as well, and Daervagor turned around and began to make his way through the clearing, presumably into the direction of his tent. The rest of them followed him silently, the young messenger clearly doing his best not to stumble and fall flat on his face, and Legolas decided that he really rather disliked the captain. He knew that some people – some misdirected, ill-informed people – considered his kind to be too loquacious and long-winded, but one really could overdo everything. Talking too much was one thing, but not talking at all was quite another – and far more annoying.

He was just beginning to feel seriously displeased by all this and was only one step away from beginning to plan how to let the captain know about this fact, too – after all, keeping such things to oneself was so much less fun than sharing them – when they reached the Daervagor's tent. It was larger than the others, though not by much, and Legolas assumed that it was commonly used for briefings and councils.

They had barely arrived when the twins appeared next to the tent from one moment to the next, stepping out of the darkness that hid them as effectively as their grey coats and dark hair. Halbarad trailed after them and appeared a second later, looking as if he'd had a hard time keeping up with them. Commander Cemendur, who had already seen them earlier today, managed to hide his surprise quite well, while the younger messenger, already exhausted from his journey, very nearly jumped straight into the air.

"Oh, good," Daervagor commented the twins' appearance curtly, looking as cool as ever. Legolas idly wondered if there was anything at all that rattled that composure of his. "You are here. I think we should discuss this inside, my lords."

Without waiting for a reply, he parted the tent squares and stepped inside, the other rangers following him. Halbarad smiled at them before he turned around and moved away from the tent's entrance, out of hearing range. The twins watched him go before they turned back to Aragorn and Legolas who had remained behind, almost identical suspicion and worry in their eyes.

"What have you done this time, Estel?" Elladan asked in Sindarin, long-sufferance in his voice.

"I?" Aragorn asked, raising his un-bandaged hand to point at his chest. "What have I done? I just followed Haldar; I have nothing to do with this!"

"It's true," Legolas interjected before the older twin could say what he was so obviously thinking, namely that Aragorn just _had_ to have something to do with this. "We were just talking to Haldar and Lhanton…"

"Whom?"

"Lhanton. One of the rangers, relatively young, I would say, dark hair, grey eyes, tall…?"

"Oh," Elladan said, managing to infuse that single sound with an impressive amount of sarcasm, "_that_ one. Now I see."

"I will point him out to you later," Legolas went on. While the amount of sarcasm Elladan had managed to put into a single word had been impressive, Legolas' fierce determination to ignore it was even more so. "Still, we were just talking when young Halbarad appeared, told us that a messenger had arrived and that Haldar was to come immediately. We thought it wise to follow him. Halbarad," he added as an afterthought, "is the young one that went to fetch you."

The twins exchanged an almost amused look while Aragorn determinedly did not look at them or anyone else, for that matter.  
"We know who he is," Elrohir said for the both of them.

While Legolas didn't know a lot about the Rangers – or, frankly speaking, Men in general –, he knew his friends. There was a whole lot more to all of this than the twins or Aragorn let on. Unfortunately, it was neither the time nor the place to discuss this, but he mentally put it on his ever-growing list of "Things that will be discussed with Aragorn, if he wants to or not".

"All right," he said, managing to lengthen the two syllables considerably. "So, it wasn't our fault. I think we should go in before they start without us. Or, worse," he added as an afterthought, already having turned around to enter the tent, "send out the captain to fetch us."

Legolas would never know if it had been the first or the second possibility that had prompted the brothers to start moving, but in a matter of seconds the three had followed him into Daervagor's tent. The rangers had not started without them – Legolas would very much have liked to see the mortals, rangers or not, that were brave enough to start a briefing without the sons of Elrond or the Prince of Mirkwood, especially when said briefing concerned them so closely. No one was quite _that _suicidal. If there was a way to convey displeasure without altering one's facial expression in the slightest, however, Daervagor had perfected it. Legolas, used to occasionally being the object of his father's wrath, was less than impressed.

"Ah, good," Daervagor said again. Something about him suggested that he wasn't very sure about the veracity of that statement. "Now that we are all here, we can begin. This is Amlaith," he turned to the dusty messenger, "of the company stationed close to the South Downs. Amlaith, these are Lord Elladan and Elrohir of Rivendell, Estel, also of Rivendell, and Lord Legolas of Mirkwood."

The young ranger managed to bow to them without falling flat on his face in either exhaustion or surprise. He gave Aragorn only the most cursory look before his eyes slid from Legolas to the twins, and Legolas barely suppressed a smirk. That was exactly the kind of reaction they had been hoping for.

"I am … honoured, my lords," Amlaith mumbled, straightening back up. His tired eyes were large and held a slightly stunned look, something that Legolas was slowly beginning to get used to.

Daervagor gave him a few more seconds to compose himself before he asked what he had obviously been wishing to ask since the younger man had arrived.  
"What is it that brings you here, Amlaith?"

"Ill tidings, sir," Amlaith said, to no one's surprise. "At least we fear that they are."

"You will have to be a bit clearer than that, young one," Cemendur said, dark brows drawn together into a single line over his grey-blue eyes. "Did your captain send you?"

"Aye, sir," the younger man said, inclining his head to the commander. "In light of what is happening, he has given me no missive, though. We are missing one of our men. He was sent out to deliver several messages, most of them in this area, and hasn't been heard of since." Anticipating the next question, he added, "He left our camp about two weeks ago. He should have been back five days ago, at the very latest."

"So he disappeared on his way back?" the commander asked, quickly putting two and two together. A missing messenger was bad enough, but if someone had intercepted their messages and had a solid enough knowledge of Sindarin and basic cryptology, they could all be in serious trouble.

"Yes, sir," the younger man said. "He had already delivered all his messages. If he was … taken … for his messages, it would have been more logical to do it sooner."

"What is his name?" Daervagor asked.

"Baran," Amlaith said softly, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. "His family lives in the village a days' ride from here to the north-west. I … I had hoped that he might have been detained here."

"Baran … yes, he was here," Cemendur said, nodding his head. He turned to look at Amlaith. "He delivered a letter from your captain, telling us about what happened in your sector over the past few weeks."

"Yes, that was him." Amlaith nodded, clearly trying to squash the hope that wanted to rise inside of him.

"He left us about nine days ago, young one," Daervagor said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "To my knowledge, no one has reported having seen him or heard news of him since."

"Oh," Amlaith said. He closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed reflexively, his face turning impossibly pale from one moment to the next. "I see. Thank you, sir."

If there hadn't been a conveniently placed tent pole at his back, the young ranger might have lost his footing. This way, he merely slumped against the pole, his back connecting with the wood with a sound that sounded quite painful. Daervagor was the first to react, and within seconds he had found a wooden stool and had pressed the younger ranger down on it.

"You must be exhausted," he said with a small, rare smile of sympathy, offering the younger man a way to keep his pride intact. "Travelling in this heat is not enjoyable at all. Is he a friend of yours?"

"Yes," Amlaith said, taking a deep breath and making a visible effort to push back the dark grief that was hovering at the back of his mind. "Yes, he was."

"You don't know that, young one." Daervagor shook his head in a gesture of thoughtful tactfulness of which Legolas wouldn't have thought him capable. "He might have been detained somewhere, as you said."

"For a week, sir?" Amlaith asked, a painful smile that looked more like a grimace distorting his face. "Without reporting in, without trying to make contact, without leaving behind any runes? No, sir," he shook his head, "he would never have done that. He is … he must be … dead, and we all know it."

"Did you see anything on your way here, Haldar?" Cemendur asked, turning to look at the younger man. "Some sign of struggle, of a battle, maybe?"

"Nothing, sir." Haldar shook his head. "He would have used at least partly the same road as us, but I did not notice any runes, or anything that might give us a clue as to what happened to him."

"There was nothing." Elladan shook his head as well. "If there had been anything to see, anything left at the usual places, we would have discovered it."

It was silent for a few seconds after that declaration. The twins had been riding with the Rangers for far longer than any of them had been alive, and they knew very well what they were talking about.

"Yes," Amlaith said tonelessly. "That is what I thought."

"Is there anything else you can tell us, Amlaith?" Daervagor said, dividing his attention between the young ranger and Aragorn and the elves.

"Not a lot, sir." Amlaith shook his head. "I spoke to his father; it appears that he spent a day there before heading back to our camp. That was seven days ago. I had hoped he had returned here for some reason, or that a patrol might have found something or come across him, but…" He trailed off and took a deep breath. "The captain sent me to see if I could find anything – not that he really thought that I would. When Baran did not return, we all knew what that meant. He knew what is going on, and knew far better than to loiter somewhere in a situation such as this one. Now all I can do is warn you, it appears."

Haldar gave the younger ranger a smile that lacked all mirth and warmth.  
"There is no need for that, I'm afraid. We already are."

"Have there been any suspicious movements in your area that your captain didn't mention in his letter?" Elrohir asked, speaking up for the first time. "Something that didn't seem important enough to mention?"

Amlaith looked at Daervagor before he answered, silently asking for permission to speak. Even though Legolas knew that the boy was only following proper protocol, he couldn't help but bristle inwardly.

"No, my lord," he finally said and shook his head. "Nothing. We were forewarned and have been careful. We haven't seen hide nor hair of anything that might be dangerous in any way, least of all orcs or trolls or any other creatures of the Dark One."

"What about the highwaymen that have been sighted in this area?" Cemendur asked. "We haven't found them yet, and it would be possible that they have relocated to your sector or somewhere close to it."

"The captain had us keep an eye out for them, sir." Amlaith nodded. "None have been sighted. There is no clue, sir. We don't know what happened to him, or where it happened, or how. It's as if he just … disappeared."

"People don't just disappear, Master Ranger," Legolas said, not at all liking the direction this conversation was taking. He simply wasn't prepared for the possibility that there was one of Sauron's more terrible devilries behind all this.

Amlaith turned to look at him and smiled slightly.  
"I wish that were so, my lord. I really wish it were."

It was silent for a few moments while elf and ranger stared at one another. Daervagor, who had been quiet for a while, finally broke the silence, brushing back a strand of dark hair that had fallen into his eyes with a quick, jerky motion that was maybe the only indication as to how he truly felt.

"I think we should continue this tomorrow. I will have those that guarded the last stretch of the road during the last week report in tomorrow morning; maybe one of them saw something. With whom did Baran spend time when he was here?"

The question was directed at Cemendur, and the taller man frowned in thought.  
"I think I saw him speaking with Ciryon," he finally answered. "With him and another man from Serothlain's troop. He wasn't here long, but if he told someone about his plans, he would have told the two of them."

"Very well, I will have them here tomorrow as well," Daervagor said, once more sounding calm and completely in control. "Do you have to return to your company right away, Amlaith?"

"No, sir." Amlaith shook his head. The grief and hopelessness that was still clearly visible in his eyes was suddenly joined by something dark and far more dangerous: Cold, vengeful anger that looked strangely out of place on the face of someone so young, at least to Legolas' eyes. "My captain ordered me to find out what happened to Baran, and find out I shall. With your permission, Captain, I would like to stay. My sword is yours."

"Your help is gladly accepted, young one," Daervagor said, inclining his head. Seemingly coming to a decision, he crossed the small distance between the back of the tent and its entrance and pushed aside the tent squares. "Serothlain!"

A second later a dark-haired ranger entered the tent, his face professionally expressionless. Legolas recognised him as one of the two rangers that had been with the captain when they had arrived earlier today. Behind him Legolas could see Lhanton who was hovering just out of earshot, clearly having decided to stay after having fetched the other dúnadan. Daervagor saw him, too, and quickly gestured at him to come closer.

"Sir?" Serothlain said, giving the elves and the newly arrived ranger a quick bow of greeting.

"You are off duty tonight, aren't you?" Daervagor asked without preamble.

"Yes, sir." There was the uncertain, somewhat weary dread in the younger ranger's voice that Legolas had heard in the voices of many a soldier who had been speaking to his superior officer, knowing he had some kind of mission or task for him.

"Not anymore," the captain said curtly. "Take someone with you and get your horse ready. If you leave now, the guards stationed the farthest north-west can get here in the morning. I want you to relieve them and tell them that I want them here as quickly as possible."

"With all due respect, sir," Haldar spoke up, exchanging a quick look with Cemendur, "but do you think that wise, considering what has happened?"

"All those who have … disappeared," Daervagor began, giving Legolas a slightly sardonic look that the elf returned flintily, "travelled alone. We can only hope that whoever is behind this doesn't change his or their mode of operation. We need information and we need it now; I will not let it go on like this!" He turned to Serothlain. "You have your orders. Be quick, and be careful. I will have you relieved tomorrow afternoon."

"Yes, sir." Serothlain nodded and turned on his heel, a slightly evil smile lighting up his serious face when his eyes came to rest on Lhanton who was busy pretending he hadn't listened to what had been spoken. Rangers, Legolas thought amusedly. "Lhanton, my friend. Aren't you part of Ciryon's little group?"

"Yes," Lhanton said carefully, clearly not liking where this was going.

"Wrong. You just volunteered to accompany me," Serothlain said with a small grin, slapping him on the back as he walked past him. "Get your horse ready. We leave in five minutes."

"Aren't we lucky?" the other ranger mumbled under his breath, shooting Serothlain a mock-annoyed look. He turned back around to his superiors and their guests. "Sirs."

With a quick bow he was gone, disappearing in the darkness like a ghost in the night. Daervagor returned his attention to his companions in the very second that the younger man turned around, his mind already on other things.

"I think it would be best if we reconvened tomorrow morning, my lords," he said, addressing Legolas and the twins and ignoring Aragorn in a manner that was commendable and infuriating at once. It was more or less how the man was supposed to be behaving – the very last thing he should do was pay special attention to the young man in front of others that neither his age nor his (apparent) heritage merited – but it was so very, very … vexing that Legolas found himself growing angry for his human friend. "We are grateful for your help and value your insights. I would be very thankful for your help in this matter."

The look that Elrohir gave his long-time friend was quite a bit colder than the one he had given him earlier today when they had arrived, and Legolas suspected that he was in fact not the only one who didn't like the casual disregard with which Daervagor treated Aragorn. It was necessary, of course, and while Legolas hadn't expected the captain to wink at them conspiratorially at every turn to indicate that he did not mean things the way they sounded, he was rather sure that there was more to this than met the eye.

Or rather, more to this than met _his_ eye. He was feeling slightly left out, as if Aragorn and his brothers knew a secret that they wouldn't share with him, and the more time passed, the less he thought that he was imagining it.

"Of course," the younger twin said, giving Daervagor a bow that was so smooth that one's eyes seemed to just slide off it. "Our father sent us with the express command to do everything in our power to help you and your men. Long has it been the way of your people and ours to help each other when the need arises."

Daervagor narrowed his eyes so slightly that only an elf would have been able to see it, and his friendly smile seemed to freeze a little as he heard the not so very subtle reminder of the old ties between the Dúnedain and the Elves of Rivendell – and of what the Rangers owed Imladris. Elrohir, usually the more eloquent and diplomatic one of the twins, could be quite blunt if he wanted to be, and right now it was obvious that he wanted to be understood with crystal clarity.

"We are in your debt, my lords," he said, giving the twins a hard look that was returned unblinkingly. "I wish you a good night, then. Haldar, find Amlaith a place for the night; tomorrow we can see if we can't find some less temporary solution. Cemendur, stay, please. We still have things to discuss."

Elrohir smiled blindingly at the captain while Elladan's face grew more serious still, and Legolas had to admit to himself one thing: A coward Daervagor was not. There weren't many people who would dare dismiss an elf lord like this, and a son of Elrond even less. The nod Daervagor received in return was already quite frosty, and when the twins turned around and followed Haldar, Amlaith and Aragorn out of the tent, their backs were straight and as rigid as poles. For a second, Legolas almost felt pity for the captain. He didn't really understand all of what was going on around here, but he knew from experience that it was a bad – and potentially dangerous – idea to make the twins mad at you.

A second later Legolas let the tent flap fall back into place with an exaggeratedly gentle movement and joined the twins who were standing some way away from Haldar and Amlaith, still not looking very happy with this situation at all. While they had been able to contain their dissatisfaction with Aragorn's plan on the journey here, it was becoming increasingly clear that they thought that none of this was a good idea. Haldar, who despite all his mule-headedness was a quite observant person, was eyeing the twins out of the corner of his eye, clearly having noticed the tension that had sprung up between them and his captain.

Legolas was about to suggest to his friends that they retreat to their respective tents before they managed to endanger the diplomatic relations between the Dúnedain and Rivendell even more – all in a thoroughly friendly and helpful manner, of course – when Aragorn stepped up to them, his face calm and almost expressionless. Only those who knew him well would have seen the small signs of anger and disappointment that he did not manage to disguise completely when he looked at his brothers.

"Only once," he said in Quenya to ensure that the two rangers at his back would not understand what he was saying, "I wish you would stop it _only once_."

The twins exchanged a quick look.  
"Estel, we…" Elladan began.

"No," Aragorn protested, clearly holding onto his patience and self-control with most of his strength. "This is between him and me, brothers. I do not need, no, I do not _want_ you to interfere on my behalf. And," he added, his eyes narrowing, "I am sure Lord Elrond wouldn't want or need it either."

He turned around and stalked over to Haldar and Amlaith who were waiting for him, apparently deep in conversation. Legolas couldn't say if the use of Lord Elrond's title or the quiet accusation in Aragorn's words had shocked the twins more. The two dark-haired elves looked after their human brother for a few moments, neither of them saying a word, before they slowly turned around.

Legolas remained where he was, suddenly feeling as clueless as an actor without a script that had by accident stumbled onto the wrong stage. A few seconds later he sighed deeply and went to follow the twins who were making their way back to their tent, and left his human friend behind in the company of the other rangers.  
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**They meant well, he told himself. They really meant well. They really, really meant well. They really, really, really…

"Estel? Are you all right?"

Aragorn returned to the present with a start, the mantra that had kept him from yelling at his brothers still ringing loudly in his head. He knew that the twins only wanted to help him and knew that they took offence in his name – even though not necessarily in his stead – but he neither needed nor wanted their help. The only thing they did was undermine his already precarious position in front of Daervagor even further, even though he knew that they did not see it this way. They wished to help him – just as he had known they would – and that was actually the thing that annoyed him the most. He had _known_ this would happen.

He had known better for once, but he hadn't listened to his intuition and had allowed Elrohir to talk him into allowing them to accompany him. Numerous times during their journey here had he asked himself how exactly the younger twin had done it (usually when they all ganged up on Haldar and drove the poor man to the brink of madness with their mumbled comments and dark _looks_), but he finally had had to admit defeat. The twins were the grandsons of the Lady Galadriel, and that, as they said, was that.

He already felt bad for speaking to them in such a way, in anger and childish disappointment, but he hadn't really been thinking. Not entirely unlike, he admitted to himself wryly, Elladan and Elrohir earlier.

"Yes," he finally said, looking up to meet Haldar's eyes. The other ranger looked sympathetic, as if he knew what was going through his head. And maybe he did, too; he'd had a brother, too, after all. "Yes, I am fine. You are taking Amlaith to his tent?"

"I am taking him to Ciryon's tent," the older man told him with a small smile, nodding his head at Amlaith who looked as if he was only one step away from collapsing with exhaustion or grief. "Serothlain won't be needing the space tonight, after all."

"I … I don't want to inconvenience anybody…" Amlaith began, blinking blearily at the two of them. How the other man had managed to even leave Daervagor's tent without assistance was beyond Aragorn. "It is warm; I can sleep under a tree…"

"Ah, none of that," Haldar said, smiling at the younger man. "Never let it be said that the men of Captain Daervagor's company show their guests discourtesy. Besides," he added, "Serothlain should be leaving right about now to relieve the guards."

It was quite disconcerting to watch Amlaith's face flush bright red, especially considering that he had been as white as a sheet no more than half a second ago. For a second, he resembled a mortally embarrassed beetroot.

"Oh," he finally said, eyes darting from Aragorn's face to Haldar's and back again. "I forgot."

"That is all right," Aragorn said, taking pity on the exhausted man. His smile grew the fraction of an inch broader as he saw Halbarad, who was still … well, lurking in the vicinity. "I've been less than coherent quite a few times in my life, too."

"Do you need anything from your horse? Because if you do, I am sure Halbarad would fetch it for you," Haldar said, beginning to steer the other ranger over to the right as soon as Halbarad had joined them.

Aragorn felt nothing but wonder for a second that the other man had let such a perfect opportunity for a stupid joke pass; his brothers and Legolas would have come up with something idiotic on the spot. He wasn't sure if he really liked that reaction, or rather the lack thereof.

Halbarad shot the older man a dark look.  
"Oh, yes. Halbarad would _love_ to fetch it."

Fortunately, Amlaith was already half asleep and not really up to noticing what was going on around him. He was barely able to set one foot in front of the other.

"No, not really. I have a bedroll there, but it's far too hot anyway."

A look of weary acceptance crossed Halbarad's face.  
"It will be more comfortable if you have it, though. I will…"

"No, _I _will get it," Haldar said, passing Amlaith's arm over to Aragorn to ensure that he wouldn't collapse where he stood. Amlaith didn't even seem to notice. "Halbarad…"

"Yes, Haldar," the younger man said with a long-suffering sigh. "I think I will manage to find Ciryon's tent all on my own. It will be hard, though, considering how overwhelmingly large our camp is and the fact that I have only been here for over a year."

Aragorn couldn't help the grin that crept over his face, and he was sure even Haldar had to battle small signs of mirth. He did battle them, though – quite successfully, one might add – and only raised an eyebrow at the two younger men before he disappeared in the darkness without another word. Yes, Aragorn decided silently. Haldar was most definitely a younger brother. That was one thing you learned early: When to give up.

"He behaves like my older brother," Halbarad complained as they began moving again. He quickly looked up to flash Aragorn a smile. "I don't even _have_ an older brother."

"Oh, I have them," Aragorn assured him. "And let me tell you one thing: They are a lot worse than Haldar could ever be."

"Yes, I've heard about that," the other ranger said, giving Aragorn what he doubtlessly considered a sly look. "We haven't been introduced yet. My name is Halbarad."

"I know." Aragorn smiled at him. "I am called Estel. Or Strider, if you would prefer."

Halbarad was spared an answer to that – in truth, he considered both Estel and Strider rather strange names – because they arrived at their destination. Within minutes they had deposited Amlaith on the far side of the tent, had found a spare blanket for him and watched how he fell asleep in under five seconds. They ducked back out of the tent a moment later and found themselves face to face with its owner, who raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Let me guess," Ciryon said sardonically. "Someone volunteered my tent for Amlaith?"

Halbarad nodded his head, grinning, as they put some distance between themselves and the tent in order not to disturb the other ranger's rest.  
"One of these days you will have to tell me how you always manage to know everything."

"Not everything, young one," the other ranger said with an even bigger grin. "Only the truly interesting things!" A sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he turned back to the tent, a speculative expression on his face. "Say, has he already been assigned to someone? Since my dear friend Serothlain has managed to steal one of my men, I need a replacement."

"Shame on you, Ciryon," Halbarad told him in mock seriousness. "An exhausted comrade comes stumbling – and I mean this in the literal sense! – into our camp, in need of aid, protection and rest, and what is the first thing you do? Before you even greet him, you 'volunteer' him for clearing the road!"

"If I have to suffer like this, others have to as well," Ciryon stated uncompromisingly. "Besides, that is the safest way, is it not? You wait until your victims are too exhausted to run away or try to evade you."

"What a charitable thought," Aragorn commented.

"Indeed." Ciryon grinned at him. "We have not been formally introduced yet, I believe. I saw you arrive with Haldar and the elf lords. My name is Ciryon."

"Greetings, Ciryon," Aragorn said, the formal words standing in contrast to the smile on his face. "I am called Estel."

Ciryon nodded.  
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Estel. So you have come to hunt with Lord Elrond's sons?" He frowned slightly. "I really hate to say it, but it would seem that now is not the best of times."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed soberly, looking over his shoulder at the tent where Amlaith was sleeping. "It would seem so."

"So Haldar told you about what is going on?" Ciryon asked, grey eyes serious and searching. "He told you and still you came?"

"I had little choice," Aragorn replied. "It quickly became apparent that no one in Rivendell could help you, that no one knew anything. The twins, however," he said, telling the lie with an ease that he was quite uncomfortable with, "were not deterred by that. They wished to come and offer you their help. And I could hardly let them go alone, now could I?"

"So you really grew up in Rivendell?" Halbarad asked, eyes wide. There were the first, faint signs of hero worship in his eyes. Aragorn didn't really know what impressed the young ranger more, the fact that he had been privileged enough to grow up in the presence of greatness, or the fact that he had survived it with his sanity more or less intact. "With the twins and all the other elf lords?"

Aragorn laughed.  
"Well, I don't know if it's _all_ the other elf lords, but there are quite a few of them, that much is true."

"Oh," was all Halbarad said. It was clear that it couldn't have made a bigger impression on the young man if Aragorn had revealed himself to be Fëanor reborn. "What happened to your parents?" He blushed a second later and added, "Forgive my directness, please. I understand perfectly well if you do not wish to answer the question."

'Well,' Aragorn thought, 'time to see if I am as good a liar as I fear I am.' Until now he hadn't been directly questioned about this topic by any of the rangers, but his luck had now officially run out.

"They died when I was very young," he said, projecting the air of somebody who has said the same thing many times already. He had, too, and it was even the truth. "They were Dúnedain, and Lord Elrond knew my father. Since there was no one to take me in, Lord Elrond undertook that duty himself."

"That was very charitable of him," Ciryon remarked offhandedly.

"It was indeed," Aragorn agreed, flashing the other ranger a smile. He wasn't quite as good as his brothers at the whole innocent 'Who, me?' attitude, but he was doing his best. "And, I am sure, a decision he has regretted quite often by now. But," he added, giving the other two rangers a conspiratorial look, "it is mostly the twins' fault, of course. I am but an innocent bystander."

That brought a smile to Halbarad's serious young face.  
"I know what you're talking about, I think. I have two younger sisters, and they always got me into trouble." His smile brightened. "They look innocent, but they most certainly are not." He saw the answering smile on Ciryon's face and added testily, "And don't you even think about it. You might be able to deck me within seconds every time we wrestle, but that doesn't mean that I wouldn't find a way to make you regret it should you ever even think about talking to them."

"Who, me?" Ciryon asked innocently. He was quite good at it; far better than he himself, Aragorn had to admit to himself.

"Yes, you," Halbarad answered. "You might think you are doing it covertly, but the whole camp has noticed you mooning after the commander's wife."

"I am hurt, my friend," the other ranger proclaimed and laid a hand on his chest to emphasise his point. "I have nothing but the highest respect for your sisters."

"Good," Halbarad said uncompromisingly, his eyes quite hard and serious. For a second, Aragorn found himself reminded of Captain Daervagor, and wasn't surprised by it at all. "They are barely twenty years old; they are far too young to marry. Besides, they wouldn't be interested in you anyway."

"Oh?" Ciryon asked. "And why is that?"

"They have standards."

"And besides," a voice behind them commented wryly, "the captain would kill you should you ever show the slightest bit of interest in his daughters. He would probably also kill you for ignoring their beauty. Either way, you're quite done for."

"Offhanded proclamations of death and doom," Halbarad remarked without turning around, his forehead creased as if in deep thought. "It must be either Mandos or some other herald of Manwë, or Ereneth, who has come to spread cheerfulness and light." He turned around with exaggerated slowness. "Oh, Ereneth! Good evening."

Aragorn turned around as well and saw that the ranger Halbarad had addressed thusly was one of the two who had been standing next to Amlaith when he had arrived. It was the taller one, who was still not quite as tall as he, something that he noticed with a small measure of satisfaction. His eyes were more blue-green than grey and there was … something … about him that simply looked different. He looked friendly enough, though, his face open and honest, and Aragorn dismissed his earlier thought as unimportant.

"See?" another voice asked, somewhere to Ereneth's left, and Aragorn's head swivelled around to search for its origin. "I told you he was funny."

"Very funny, brother," the tall man agreed ironically. "Just like you, now that I think about it."

He ignored the growl that could be heard and stepped slightly to the side to make room for the newcomer, who stepped out of the darkness with a grace and suddenness that was almost elven. It was the shorter one, and this time Aragorn was forewarned enough not to stare. He looked slightly older than Ereneth, maybe around thirty or thirty-five years. His hair really _was_ a dark blond, and his eyes were green. There wasn't even the tiniest hint of grey or blue in them.

"Hírgaer." Ciryon inclined his head. Aragorn wasn't entirely sure about it, but he seemed to be almost cautious all of the sudden. "Still trailing after your little brother?"

"Ah well, you know how it is," the blond man said, shrugging. "He gets into an awful lot of trouble once I let him out of my sight."

Ereneth snorted and raised his hand to punch his brother (on the shoulder, Aragorn hoped), but Hírgaer had already moved out of reach.  
"Saying that _you_ get into trouble once _I _let _you _out of my sight would be more accurate."

"That, dear brother, depends entirely on your point of view." Hírgaer grinned, but his eyes remained serious and guarded as he looked at Aragorn. "We have not been introduced yet, I believe."

"So do I," Aragorn agreed, doing his best to smile charmingly. His instincts, which had always served him well, were telling him right now that this was a dangerous man – a man who could do an awful lot of damage should he put his mind to it. "I saw you earlier with Amlaith."

"Yes." The guarded, cautious look in the fair-haired man's eyes did not disappear. "And I saw you and your elven friends."

"Hírgaer." Ciryon said his name gently, but there was steel beneath it that was to be heeded. Halbarad just narrowed his eyes at the other ranger and stared, looking eerily like his father. "This is Estel, foster brother of the Lords Elladan and Elrohir. Estel, these are Hírgaer and Ereneth."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Ereneth assured Aragorn before his brother could speak again. "You and your companions."

Hírgaer inclined his head and mumbled something under his breath that might – by a good-natured and amiable person – have been interpreted as "Indeed". Aragorn, who found that, as the day progressed, he was turning out to be in fact neither, was quite sure that the fair-haired ranger had said something else.

"You seem to have picked a strange moment to hunt some orc," Ereneth remarked, those blue-green eyes of his at least as piercing as his brother's. "Everything considered."

"Yes, it would seem so," Aragorn agreed tranquilly. "But I couldn't let my brothers come here alone, now could I?"

Hírgaer nodded at him, his eyes gleaming with something that might have been approval. Then again, Aragorn told himself, it might have been something entirely different. He was beginning to get to know these rangers here, but these two were something different, somehow.

"Were you afraid that we might harm them?" he asked teasingly. At least Aragorn thought the question was asked in jest.

He raised both his eyebrows and started to chuckle, shaking his head.  
"No, not at all. Quite the contrary, in fact."

"Well," Halbarad said with a shrug and a somewhat strained smile, "none of us can choose their roots or family."

That had apparently been the wrong thing to say and, judging by Halbarad's expression, the lad knew it, too. Ereneth's eyes narrowed to cold slits, and Aragorn found that Hírgaer, when properly motivated, could produce a stare that was almost Erestorish in its intensity.

"Quite so," the taller man agreed, his face expressionless and his voice so cold that it would have made a snow-troll shiver. "We are on guard duty tonight. Good night, Estel; it has been a pleasure to meet you."

Aragorn inclined his head politely and returned the sentiment, and a second later the two had disappeared into the night. Hírgaer hadn't even spoken a single word and had only regarded them with an expression that could almost have called loathing. While the blond man hadn't appeared to be of the highly sociable kind, it was still an action of ill regard and rudeness that Aragorn found quite hard to explain.

No one seemed inclined to explain it to him anyway. Ciryon was glaring at Halbarad, who was intensely staring at the tips of his dusty boots.

"Well," Ciryon finally said. "I will be taking my leave, then. I have to be up early tomorrow. There is still much to do and much to organise – clearing roads sounds a lot easier than it actually is."

"I can imagine," Aragorn said, inwardly asking himself what had just happened here. "Haldar might bring some of Amlaith's things a bit later on."

"I see." The other ranger nodded at Aragorn and gave Halbarad another hard stare. "A good night to you. I will see you tomorrow."

He turned around and walked towards his tent, and Aragorn had no choice but to follow the suddenly very quiet Halbarad back the way they had come. When he was bidding the young ranger good night a few moments later, noting with only the tiniest hint of surprise that Halbarad had absolutely no intention of explaining what was going on, Aragorn decided that Legolas had been quite correct.

Rangers _were_ strange.  
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**_Strangely enough, the first thing he thought when he realised what was going on was "Oh no, not again"._

_The second one was "I am getting rather tired of this darkness". Because that was all he could see – if he could see at all, of which he was by no means certain. There was nothing around him, nothing at all. There was something hard and smooth beneath his feet, feeling almost like a smooth stone floor, but he could not see it. The blackness was far more absolute and total than even the darkest night could ever be, and to his substantial horror it almost felt as if it was a living, malevolent creature._

_Not that it all this mattered much, of course. He knew that this was a dream, that it wasn't real and that he would wake up eventually, but somehow that didn't seem to matter terribly much. The darkness was so deep and all-encompassing that all the hard-won composure that was all that kept him from losing his mind vanished as if it had never existed, and he was rather sure that he hadn't been more afraid when he had been six years old and convinced that a balrog lived in his closet._

_Even despite the blackness that pressed in on him on all sides, even despite the fear that was beginning to rise inside of him no matter how much he tried to push it back down, he tried to resist this time. It didn't matter that this wasn't __**his**__ dream. It didn't matter that the darkness was enough to make the most reasonable person lose his mind. It didn't matter that he was entirely aware of both facts and could still not break free. What mattered was that __**he**__ was in it, and, Morgoth take it all, he would not allow any dream of his to terrify him in such a matter!_

_His firm resolve lasted approximately thirty seconds, as such firm resolves usually do. He had just enough time to feel a stab of annoyance before a wave of such hatred and darkness slammed into him, bringing him to his knees in an instant. Trying to steel himself against what was to come was about as effective as trying to gather water in a wicker basket, and so he wasn't overly surprised when his head seemingly exploded a second later._

_For long seconds, it was impossible for him to move or even think. The pain was so debilitating, so utterly paralysing, that he couldn't even breathe and found himself gasping for air, the darkness gathering around his kneeling, inert form. After what felt like an eternity, the pain abated somewhat, just enough to allow him to draw in a shaking breath that brought crippling pain to the rest of his body. He couldn't remember if it had hurt more the last time this had happened, and his mind shied away from the thought with a determination at which he had no strength to be surprised. The last of his earlier anger dissipated like snow in the sun and his head was spinning, leaving him confused, in more pain than he'd ever been in his life and utterly terrified._

_Something changed from one moment to the next, something that he felt more than saw. Even if there had been some light, his eyes wouldn't have worked anyway, his body too busy being wrecked by the most terrible agony he had ever experienced. It was almost as if the darkness … shifted … for a lack of better word, as if the blackness parted ever so slightly to allow someone to step forward. His vision blurred with the tears that ran down his cheeks and that he couldn't control any more than the pained gasps that escaped him every time he struggled to breathe, but he slowly raised his head._

_It was the same dark figure he had seen the last time he had been trapped in this dark nightmare. If anything, it looked even taller and more imposing as it stood above him, swathed in hooded black robes that made it blend in with the surrounding darkness._

_If he could have drawn in enough breath to scream, he would have. Things being as they were, he could only stare at the dark figure with wide eyes, sudden panic filling his chest that temporarily even overshadowed the agony that was pulsing in his veins. The panic turned into unreasonable, wild terror when the figure bowed its head, the heavy folds of the robe falling forward to frame the space where there should have been a shrouded face._

_There was nothing of the sort, however, not that he had expected it. There was nothing but darkness there that seemed to expand and merge with the darkness that surrounded him, and he felt how the pain in his head even increased._

_"Who … are … you?" he finally gasped out, refusing to look away or back down._

_There was no answer, and a second later the pain in his head increased to blinding levels. The last thing he saw before his sight failed, whitened out by the smothering agony behind his temples, was the figure take a step closer to him._

_Then, thankfully, he woke up._

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** He surged upwards with a half-choked scream, his heart beating so fast that it might as well have been trying to escape the confines of his chest and jump right out of his torso. It was dark, too dark to see anything, and that fact alone was enough to terrify him in a manner he wouldn't have thought possible a few weeks ago. There was something holding him down, restricting his movements in a way that made the terror lurking in his heart even increase, and without even realising what he was doing, he lashed out with his uninjured arm.

He hit something solid, eliciting a small grunt from the one trying to hold him down. If he hadn't been so confused and terrified, he would have felt terribly pleased.

"Varda's domes above!" a voice that sounded vaguely familiar grumbled softly, sounding slightly out of breath.

The darkness around him lessened somewhat as his eyes became accustomed to it, and he could see the shape of a man in front of him that was kneeling a foot or two away from him. He emanated impatient urgency, as if he was restraining himself from rushing forward.

"Strider, be calm. It is me, Haldar."

Aragorn was not calm at all. His heart was still beating furiously, cold sweat covering his skin, and he had a hard time making sense of the words the other man had spoken. Where was he? And where was the hooded figure?

Haldar, whose eyes had had enough time to adapt to the lack of light in the minutes since he'd been woken from a dreamless slumber by the unmistakable sounds of his younger tent mate having a nightmare, could see quite clearly that the boy hadn't recognised him, at least not truly. He contemplated leaving him for a few moments to fetch the twins or Prince Legolas or his companion, but quickly decided against it. The younger ranger looked as if his heart would stop any second now and he would not leave him alone. The twins would probably disembowel him for it later, but he didn't care.

"Aragorn," he tried again, lowering his voice even further as he spoke the forbidden name. He almost shuddered at the thought of Lord Elladan or his brother hearing him compromising their little brother's safety in such a manner. "Estel. You are safe. It was nothing but a dream. It is me, Haldar."

For long seconds, he thought his chieftain wouldn't recognise him. Finally the younger man blinked slightly, the confusion on his face plain to see even in the darkness that filled the small space.

"Haldar? What is going on?"

Haldar sighed. That was the one question he had no answer to.  
"You were having a nightmare, my lord. I tried to wake you," he rubbed the middle of his chest with the palm of his hand, "but was not truly successful, I fear."

Aragorn barely heard his words. Sudden imagines of darkness and fear and pain rose inside of him, filling his heart and head with a black despair he couldn't understand himself, and he started shivering even despite the warmth of the night. This time, there was no warg attack to distract him from them, and he knew instinctively that this dream had been _different_. All he could see was the hooded man … being … whatever it had been standing in front of him, coming closer and reaching out for him, the black _nothingness_ of his hood filling the entire space around him. He barely noticed that Haldar, seeing his uncontrollable shivers, draped a blanket around him and placed a hand on his blanket-covered shoulder that was undoubtedly meant to be comforting.

"It is all right," the older man said, his voice surprisingly gentle and soothing. The part of Aragorn that was still capable of clear thoughts wondered if he had children, and why he had never asked him. "Shh, young one. It is all right."

If anything, Aragorn's shivers increased. His voice, however, was strong and solemn and utterly tired as he spoke, raising his head and looking at the shadowed face of the other ranger and lowering it again just as quickly.

"No, it isn't," he said, his bowed head still reeling and the icy terror that filled his chest refusing to lessen its hold of him. "Valar, but no, it isn't."

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_dúnedain (pl. of dúnadan) - 'Men of the West', rangers_

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Almost ****no translations? Phew, it's been a while... Well, it makes sense: No elves, no Sindarin. Well, the rangers actually DO know Sindarin, but I don't think that they would speak it all the time and ... •takes deep breath• Fine. I'll shut up. So, stay tuned for the next chapter, which should be here in approximately two weeks (my mother's coming to visit and I don't think I can make it before that), in which things finally start getting serious as the villain shifts his attention to Daervagor's little troop - about which no one is really happy, not even the baddies, I suppose. •g• As always: Review? Yes, please!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**Finally, the profile pages work again! It's about bloody time... •grumbles• So, I'm once again replying to the reviews via a big group email, I've found that's the easiest way. A thousand apologies to Tatsumaki-sama (yup, here we go again! •g•), Mirwen Sunrider (ditto) and Sandra for not including them in the email. Remember, I need a working email address on your profile page or, if you wish to review anonymously, an email address noted there. Once again, sorry for the inconvenience!**


	13. Requesting Clarification

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

Ha, I am more or less on time! Better mark this day in your calendars, boys and girls, it's not happening very often by now, isn't it? •readers shake their heads• You know, this was the perfect opportunity to nod and lie through your teeth... •shrugs• Ah well, you're right. Still, this time I did manage to update when I said I would, and that even though my mother's still here. She will fly back next week, so I'm still a little busy - oh, whom am I kidding, I'm very busy. So that means that the next chapter might not be here next week, but rather the week after that - or most likely sometime in-between. To make up for it, I wrote an extra-long chapter this time. I mean it! It really is blood long! •g• I hope that pacifies you a little.

Oh, one other thing: It seems that I sent out the wrong review replies last time, namely the replies for chapter 11, not chapter 12. I don't really know how it happened. No matter, I'll send them again when I send the ones for last chapter. Forgive me for this little slip-up; I am sorry for any inconvenience it might have caused.

And now, on to the chapter! Since it is rather long, it's about a lot of things. Haldar find out that his relationship with the twins is more or less just as bad as he had suspected, Elladan and Elrohir find out some things about their brother, and Halbarad, Ciryon and the other rangers find out that Elves - and Wood-elves especially - are insane. Aragorn finds out that his Fabulous Idea© really isn't working out quite as well as he'd hoped, Legolas and the twins find out that some dreams are worse than others, and Glorfindel finds out that he isn't the only one who's been having a bad feeling lately. Oh, and the villain has a new job for Skagrosh and his friends, something about which everybody will soon find out, too. Confused yet? Yes? Good. •evil grin•

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 13

It had been years since he had been truly nervous. Granted, he had been a little apprehensive when he had had to tell Lord Elrond that his son – his _adopted_ son, he stressed quickly – was in the very real danger of being found by one of Sauron's servants, but that hadn't really been nervousness.

It hadn't been too pleasant either when the twins and their friends had stared at him all the time in that particular way that left no doubt in his mind that they'd have liked to do something horrible and painful to him. Besides, in Rivendell he'd had Commander Meneldir to more or less protect him, and even during the journey it hadn't been that hard because he'd known that he was right. It was his duty to act like this, his duty to heed his chieftain's orders before all others, and if the elves had a problem with that (and it was clear that they did), then, well, it was _their_ problem.

He had been _right_. He had been doing his _duty_.

But right now, Haldar concluded darkly, he wasn't right, and he wasn't entirely sure he was doing his duty. Oh, he wasn't _not_ doing his duty, at least not in the strictest sense of the word because his lord's health was of the utmost importance to him, no matter what said lord seemed to think about the matter, but, well … he wasn't exactly doing what the boy wanted him to do, either.

And what _that_ was was quite easy to see: Forget that he had ever witnessed him having that nightmare, and, if he was unable to forget it, at least to never talk about it with anybody, least of all his foster brothers or the prince and his friend. Oh, not that the boy had said anything to him; he hadn't mentioned the incident again and hadn't made any allusions to it, either. But among the things he had learned from the Elves there had obviously been "How to stare at people in a way that clearly conveys what you want and that eventually makes them do it" or possibly even "How to stare at people until the less suicidal ones start breaking down crying".

He hadn't started crying yet, which apparently shed a rather depressing light on his current state of mind.

Still, something had to be done, and he was doing it, no matter what the son of Arathorn thought about it. He wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do or not; for all that he knew, he could be committing some terrible mistake that would either earn him his young lord's eternal disfavour or some kind of messy death at the twins' hands. Or at Prince Legolas', which might actually be worse. He had heard quite a lot about King Thranduil during his travels, and not once the Elvenking had been described as "understanding", "merciful" or even "possessing a sense of humour".

He somehow doubted that his son and heir would be all that different.

Straightening his back, Haldar furtively cast a look over his shoulder that, under different circumstances, would have embarrassed him. Now, however, it was the only intelligent thing to do, and to his substantial relief he saw that Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. He shouldn't be – he should be with Lhanton and Ciryon, after all – but you could never be too careful, now could you?

Having made sure that he was in fact alone and unobserved, he returned his attention to the tent in front of him and took a deep breath. He was doing his duty. He _was_.

"My lords?" he called out softly, deciding to pretend that the tent's occupants didn't know that he was here. Of course they did, he was sure about it; even a mortal could have positively _heard_ him think. Still, there was no reason to acknowledge that, was there? "May I speak with you for a moment or two?"

For a few seconds – uncommonly long seconds – it was silent, and Haldar waited patiently. If they wanted to disquiet him (like they usually did), they would be sorely disappointed. Today, he was nervous even _before_ setting eyes on them.

"Enter!" a fair voice finally called, sounding faintly amused. The 'if you dare' had not been spoken, but it rang so loudly in Haldar's ears that he involuntarily shook his head.

Strong Tulkas be his witness, he respected the two elf lords, he truly did, but sometimes he was sure he would lose his patience and do something he would be made to regret. Pushing his annoyance to the side, Haldar parted the canvas and stepped inside. He needed a few moments to adjust to the semidarkness that filled the small space that, after the bright sunlight outside, seemed all the more pronounced.

When his eyes had become used to it, he saw that the two occupants of the tent had indeed been expecting him, and they also seemed to know that this wasn't a social call. They were sitting on two low wooden stools that had been placed at the far end of the tent, their bedrolls having been rolled up and put away, and a third – where in the name of all that was good and holy had they managed to find a third stool? – had been placed in front of them. Haldar had to admit with something akin to envy that this put him in the situation of a subordinate being interrogated by his commanders, or a pupil being reprimanded by his teachers. If he hadn't been so annoyed, he would have been truly impressed by their deviousness.

"My lords," he said calmly and inclined his head in polite greeting. "Good morning."

'Ha,' he thought to himself, 'now let us just see how they dealt with that!'

Unfortunately, they dealt with it without batting an eyelid, something that would have annoyed Haldar if he had allowed it to.

"Good morning, Haldar," one of the twins said, smiling that smile at him that – once again – reminded him of a predator baring its teeth at him. At least they were using his name now, he thought to himself. "I hope you had a pleasant night?"

They knew, the ranger thought almost indignantly. He went through all of this, and they already _knew_! Well, he admitted to himself a moment later, maybe they didn't know, but they suspected.

"Thank you for your concern, my lord," he said, masking his thoughts.

He didn't answer the question, though, something that the two dark-haired elves did not miss, either. He would address this matter on his terms and wouldn't allow them to dictate this conversation. Elbereth's stars above, he knew that they didn't like him – they weren't trying to disguise their feelings – but he wouldn't just roll over and allow them to do whatever they wished. He was doing his duty as best as he could and if they had a problem with that, well, they could just go hang.

His firm determination didn't last long, especially not under the influence of a displeased elven stare.

"Please, sit down," the other twin said, gesturing at the empty stool in front of him. Not seeing any polite way out of it, Haldar sat. "Elladan and I wondered when you would come to see us."

"Oh?" Haldar arched an eyebrow, refusing to give even an inch. It was a childish reaction, he knew that, but this was already hard enough for him. "And why is that, my lord?"

The two elves exchanged a quick look, and Haldar could almost see how they decided to change tactics. His suspicion was confirmed when Lord Elrohir opened his mouth to answer his question – if there was one thing he had learned, it was that the younger twin at least _tried_ to sound diplomatic.

When it was necessary or the fancy took him, that was.

"You have come to tell us something, Haldar," Elrohir said, spearing the man with a credible version of his father's _look_. "Haven't you?"

What he had come to say was too important to be trifled with, and so Haldar reluctantly admitted defeat. In a game of wits and words, he would lose anyway, and both he and the twins knew that.

"Yes, my lord," he agreed, doing his best to return the younger twin's look steadily. He was fighting a losing battle there, but then again, he was a ranger. He would be damned if he backed down just because of a triviality such as overwhelming, adverse odds. "I am worried about … Estel."

The two elves exchanged a quick look, as if displeased about his near-slip, and Haldar couldn't help the thin sheen of sweat that suddenly appeared on his brow. He didn't even want to think about just how they would react if they knew that he had said the younger man's real name in their tent the night before last. It probably wouldn't be a nice sight, that much was certain.

"You are not the only one," the older twin told him, his voice as calm and uncompromising as ever. "Even your captain is, I would say."

Captain Daervagor – who except himself and Commander Cemendur was the only ranger who knew the boy's true identity – might be worried about Arathorn's son, that much was true, Haldar admitted to himself. He was also a lot of other things, among them annoyed, incredulous and angry (for example at _him_ for bringing the boy with him in the first place), but it wasn't his place to say so.

Ha, he thought darkly. As if he'd ever had any choice in the matter.

"Yes, my lord," Haldar only said, deciding that remaining calmly polite was the only way he would be getting out of this alive, sane and with all his limbs attached. "I am disobeying an order by telling you this. It wasn't actually issued, but insisting on such nuances is inconsequential."

This time, the look that the twins exchanged was one of pure worry.  
"Go on," Elladan said, and, for once, there was nothing but concern in his voice.

Haldar gave the twin a narrow-eyed look.  
"So he hasn't told you about the dream yet, I take it."

The sudden surprise that bloomed on their faces was impossible to hide even for the Firstborn. It was quickly followed by anger, disappointment and hurt – the boy had clearly told his adopted brothers nothing. Neither of the two said anything, and finally Haldar, who was not a cruel man, took pity on them.

"He had a nightmare," he began carefully, absent-mindedly deciding that the situation had just got even more complicated. It was clear that the twins had been told nothing, and equally clear that they were not happy about it. This conversation was already skirting the borders of rudeness – as most exchanges between them did – and this might just have been the last straw. "It was … bad, just like that one time during our journey. He did not know me when he woke up."

Something, maybe the anger that had been gathering over the twins' heads like a dark storm cloud, disappeared from one moment of the next. Elrohir exhaled slowly, his formerly thunderous expressions fading away.  
"When was that, Master Ranger?"

"The night before last, my lord," Haldar answered. He decided to ignore the fact that he had once again not been referred to by name. "I do not know what it was about; he would not speak of it. But it must have been a bad one."

"Why?"

"Because he didn't dare go to sleep last night," Haldar said, his voice somewhere between cool, wry and concerned. "Oh, he tried to disguise it, but I have been keeping an eye on enough recruits on guard duty to know when someone is sleeping and when he isn't. Estel did not sleep last night; I would bet what gold I possess. Even against Lhanton."

That, as the twins had learned already, meant quite a lot. Lhanton, who "enjoyed the occasional, friendly game of cards", was a card sharp who would have put even the most seasoned warriors of Mirkwood to shame. Incidentally, he got along quite well with Celylith.

"I see," one of the twins said. His voice was so emotionless that Haldar actually had to blink. "Thank you."

"I know that it is not my place to tell you this," Haldar went on heedlessly. "But I came to you to ask you to talk to him about it, to make him tell you what he will not tell me, as you can probably imagine. He is who he is and I would die for him, as I told you before, but he barely knows me. You, on the other hand, he will tell about this. If he does not wish to talk to you about it, then, in Elbereth's name, _make him_."

"You are quite right, son of Baranor," the older twin said, his voice as cold as his expression. "It is _not_ your place."

"I am doing my duty, my lord." Haldar shook off the words that would have stopped him in his tracks under any other circumstances. "You have spoken with Amlaith, just as I have. His friend was no more than two days' ride away from here when he disappeared. I do not think that I have to tell you what will happen to your foster brother if he should find himself in _that_ kind of trouble after not having rested properly for days. We _Dúnedain_ are but human, my lords. We need sleep."

"We know very well the needs of your kind, _Master Ranger_." This time, Elladan's voice could only have been called arctic. "And those of our own brother."

And here they were again, back at 'Master Ranger', said in that particular tone of voice, Haldar thought tiredly. Still, he had to admit that the elf had a point. It probably hadn't been the best – or the most diplomatic – idea to insinuate any such thing.

"I apologise, my lord," Haldar said, inclining his head in what he hoped was an appropriately repentant way. "To you and your brother."

He _was _sorry, too. He truly hadn't meant to all but tell the twins to their faces that they didn't have any experience in dealing with humans. Firstly, that wasn't true, and secondly … well, they were the sons of Elrond. No one in their right minds liked to anger the sons of Elrond.

"And we to you, Haldar," Elrohir said before his twin could open his mouth. He didn't look overly penitent, but at least he didn't appear to be only a few steps away from wanting to kill him slowly and painfully. "The last few days have been … stressful. Our tempers are shorter than they should be."

"I understand, my lord," Haldar said, and he did. "But even if one disregards the inherit dangers of exhaustion, this might be much worse. It is possible," he added carefully, "that you will have to tell Captain Daervagor."

"The captain? Why?" the older twin asked, blinking innocently.

The elf's voice was calmer now, but he didn't sound very friendly either. Yesterday the two dark-haired elves and Captain Daervagor had acted ostensibly friendly and respectful towards each other, and if Haldar hadn't got to know the young elf lords quite well during the long, _long_ trip here, he would have believed that neither they nor his captain had a care in the world and were indeed the best of friends. Everybody knew that the twins and Captain Daervagor knew each other quite well – and, as some of the more positive people claimed, also liked each other – but, well, suffice to say that he had seen enough diplomats to know when a smile was in reality nothing more than a grimace meant to make oneself look good and the opposition bad.

To say it bluntly, right now the twins and Captain Daervagor liked each other about as well as the twins and he did.

"Yes, the captain," Haldar said, feeling how his patience slowly began to desert him. Elves could be so incredibly vexing! "Do you take me for a fool, my lords? I do not have to be _told_ to know what is going on. I have eyes and know how to use them."

The twins exchanged another one of their looks, and Haldar found that he didn't have the energy to feel offended by their apparent unwillingness to trust him. Either he was getting used to it or he was simply losing his will to live. Right now, he wasn't completely sure.

"What do you mean?" Elladan finally asked.

Haldar, even despite the annoyance, worry and incredulous impatience warring inside of him, had to smile.  
"The boy is his parents' son, my lords. Lord Arathorn possessed the Gift, but not as strongly as Lady Gilraen's family. Her kin still live among us, as you well know, and they are not the only ones who are … gifted in such a manner."

The corners of the younger twin's mouth quivered for several seconds before his mouth twisted into a grudging smile.  
"Very well. I must apologise to you again, son of Baranor. Still, you cannot blame us for wanting to protect our brother and shield his … weaknesses. It was not our place to tell."

"I wouldn't dream of it, my lord. I understand completely," Haldar said truthfully. "My sister-in-law has the ability as well, though to a far lesser degree, I think. From her I know that it usually takes some time to manifest, time to understand what is going on, what one is seeing. He is … young, is he not?"

"Aye," Elladan agreed. "Too young, really. His dreams are … chaotic, violent, and he does not yet know how to make sense of them."

Haldar thought about that for a few moments. He did not possess the gift (if it could be called that) they spoke of, at least not to a greater degree than most Dúnedain. An occasional foresight or feeling, yes, he'd experienced that as well, but nothing like a real prophetic dream or a vision. It was something for which he had thanked the One many times in the past. He was a simple man, or so he liked to believe, and he did not relish the idea of seeing and hearing things that weren't there, or weren't there yet, or hadn't been there in the first place. The entire concept was enough to give him a headache.

"Then I am doubly glad that I came to you, my lords," he finally said, looking the two elves in the eye. They might not like each other, might in fact never like each other, but this right here was where their common ground was located. "I worried for Estel, and now I can see that my concern was justified. You can offer him the help that I cannot, my lords."

"We will do our best," Elrohir assured him. "We will help him, if he wishes it or not."

"And," his brother added to Haldar's (and, truthfully, also Elrohir's) surprise, "if there is anything that needs to be shared with your captain, we will not keep it to ourselves. You have my word on that."

The smile on Haldar's face grew slightly bigger, and he stood to his feet and gave the two elves his most regal bow. 

"I would never doubt your word, my lord." He straightened up and the smile grew quite a bit stonier. "I would thank you, however, if you did not doubt mine. I want to be very, very clear about this: I told you that I would die for him and would never willingly cause him harm, and to that I hold."

Nothing more was spoken after that, neither by the two dark-haired elves nor by the ranger. Haldar gave the two of them a nod, received equally polite ones in return, and took his leave.

When he reached the entrance, parted the tent squares and stepped outside, he decided that the look of grudging, almost-respectful annoyance on the two elf lords' faces was the best thing he had seen in several days.  
**  
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**Having been around rangers for a large part of the last few days, Aragorn found that he had to revise his opinion at least slightly. Rangers might be strange, yes – Valar, just how strange! – but Elves could be the tiniest bit unusual, too. Especially, he added, if you hadn't grown up around them, hadn't learned Quenya before you'd ever really learnt Westron and were still in awe of them.

At least the last part, he admitted to himself, was becoming less and less of a problem, even where the younger and more impressionable warriors were concerned.

Right now, Halbarad was staring, open-mouthed, at Celylith who was walking past them, apparently not even noticing them. Next to the young ranger stood Ciryon and Serothlain, who – even though older and more experienced than the captain's son – looked at least as surprised as the younger ranger.

"Is he … is he all right?" Serothlain finally asked somewhat timidly.

It was a valid question, Aragorn had to admit that. The dark-haired ranger hadn't been the first being to ask himself that particular question, and Aragorn didn't need any kind of foresight at all to know that he most likely wouldn't be the last one either. Even other wood-elves found some of Celylith's habits peculiar (not to mention members of the other tribes), and most humans they had met had either thought him too dangerous to talk to or simply insane.

The habit that had arrested the three young rangers' attention was the fact that the silver-haired wood-elf was just now walking past them, a black bag in his arms that he was addressing in a lively tone of voice. If one listened closely – and was used to the particular Silvan lilt that tinged the Sindarin words – one could even understand the words he was speaking, an entranced expression on his face that Aragorn had seen far too many times already.

"…I know that the flies here taste differently, _pen-velui_, but you'll just have to make do, I'm afraid. No, don't you wriggle like that; it will not persuade me to let you out longer at night! Last night you scared that guard, young lady, and I really don't think we should repeat that incident. Yes, I know that these rangers here are strange, Lúthien, but that doesn't mean that you are allowed to frighten them in such a manner and…"

The black bag wriggled again as if in protest. Celylith, deeply immersed in the somewhat one-sided conversation, lifted his head and gave Aragorn a friendly smile as he passed the four rangers.

"Good morning, Estel! Have you seen Legolas?"

"Good morning, my friend," Aragorn retorted, ignoring the astonished looks that the other rangers divided between him and the fair-haired elf. "I think he is feeding Rashwe some apples to appease him. I hear he tried to eat the commander this morning; that experience must have stressed the poor beast."

"That horse is evil." Celylith nodded wisely. "I have told Legolas numerous times, but he simply will not listen to me. I don't understand why not; do you?"

"Not at all," Aragorn lied with a smile, his expression clearly stating that he didn't want to upset a person holding a bat in a bag.

"Ah well." Celylith shrugged happily, causing the bag to move again. This time, a muffled flapping sound could be heard as well, as if something was beating its wings. "I'll see if I can find him, then. I will see you later, Estel. Good day to you, too, Dúnedain."

The other three rangers, usually quite eloquent and well-bred individuals, could only stare as the silver-haired elf turned around and headed off, alternately whistling under his breath and addressing the bag. It was Ciryon who found his voice first, after several moments of open-mouthed astonishment that was actually quite amusing to watch. To his credit, he managed not to sound as if an envoy of the only remaining elven king of Arda had just quite concisely proven that he was as mad as a hatter.

"Did he … did he just call that bag Lúthien?"

"No." Halbarad shook his head, quick to defend their guests. "We must have misunderstood. He couldn't have."

Aragorn's inborn honestly warred with his desire not to reveal to his companions just how … different … the Elves – and the Wood-elves of Mirkwood especially! – could be, and the latter quickly won out. How would he ever be able to lead these people if they were convinced that he had been raised by raving lunatics? He most certainly wouldn't volunteer any information.

Unfortunately, no one gave him a chance to do so, or rather not to do so. Serothlain, unaware of what was going through the younger ranger's mind, turned to him, puzzlement clear to see on his face.

"Why was Lord Celireth…"

"Celylith," Aragorn quickly corrected him. Elves were quite particular about their names, and not one he knew liked hearing his or her name mispronounced. "His name is Celylith, son of Celythramir."

"Lord Celylith, then," Serothlain said, unperturbed. "Why was he talking to a bag?"

Not volunteering any information was one thing, Aragorn thought despondently, but clamping your lips together and refusing to say even a single word was quite another.

"He likes to keep … pets," he finally said, his mind racing as he tried to find a way to make Celylith sound like a more or less sane person. "Unusual pets. Neither the twins nor Legolas are happy about it – not to mention Lord Elrond, of course –, and so he usually keeps them hidden."

"Hidden?" Ciryon asked, raising dark eyebrows in incredulity. "He was talking to a bag in public, in Elbereth's name!"

"Yes, well," Aragorn said, floundering, "Wood-elves are somewhat more … straightforward than the Noldor."

"And he called it, whatever 'it' is, _Lúthien_?" Serothlain stressed, clearly unable to wrap his mind around the concept that an elf – even a wood-elf – could be this … strange.

"Well…"

Ciryon and Serothlain exchanged a quick look that Aragorn had come to recognise by now as their "Just let him talk, poor orphan boy that he is" look. Halbarad didn't seem as perturbed by the revelation and only looked at him with bright, curious eyes.

"What is in it?"

"I beg your pardon?" Aragorn asked, busy trying to decide if he was pleased about the other rangers' look or not.

"In the bag," Halbarad elaborated. "What is in it?"

Two dark head swivelled around and two pairs of grey eyes looked at Aragorn. This was something that also seemed to interest Ciryon and Serothlain. All right, this was it, Aragorn decided, and only just resisted closing his eyes in anticipation of almost certain disaster.

"A bat."

"Ah."

Aragorn wasn't sure if it had been Ciryon or his tent mate that had said the word, but he wasn't sure if it made such a difference after all. Judging by their facial expressions, they were thinking much the same thing, namely that Elves were inherently strange, if not downright insane. 

"Yes," he said, and trailed off after a singly word. They wouldn't understand. Eru, not even he did, and neither did his brothers. "Well, it's a long story. One that is far too painful to recount, let me assure you."

The three rangers exchanged a quick look and quite clearly decided that they believed him without question.

"So," Halbarad eventually said in a not-so-very-subtle attempt to change the topic, "what about the road, then?"

"Yes," a new voice agreed, and Aragorn turned just in time to see Lhanton join them, the sun lending his dark hair red highlights. "What about the road? And, more importantly, isn't there anybody who owes me enough money so that I can make him take my place?"

"I seriously doubt it, my friend." Serothlain shook his head in the mockingly mournful way that only a person could produce who knew what he would be doing today and knew that clearing any roads was in no way connected to it. "Not even you could have cheated at _that_ many card games."

"I resent that," Lhanton said with enviable dignity. "I don't need to cheat. Rangers don't cheat, you should know that."

"Of course not," Halbarad agreed with a rather false smile. "You just win nine out of ten games just like that."

"What can I say?" The older ranger grinned. "It's a talent."

"Your 'talent' will get you into trouble with your group leader," Halbarad prophesied in the self-satisfied tone of voice of someone who had lost too many of the games in question. "And then aren't you going to wish you had listened to us?"

"And besides, I must say I am hurt," Ciryon interjected, spearing the other ranger with a quick look. "You missed all the fun yesterday; surely you wouldn't want to miss any more?"

"Hmm, let me see … yes?" Lhanton offered.

"Well, I am sorry," Ciryon said, not sounding sorry at all. "But I need you for the first shift, until mid-afternoon. I am the only officer available and have to be there at all times, but I am not as cruel as to insist that all of you do the same. We are stretched thin as it is."

"Very well." The other man shrugged, clearly having decided to accept defeat with as much grace as he could. "It's all for the greater good, after all. We wouldn't want any poor little hobbits to get lost in the forest, now would we? The captain would be heartbroken."

Serothlain gave the swiftly reddening Halbarad a quick look (it really mustn't be easy being the captain's son, Aragorn thought commiseratively) and grinned.

"No, we most definitely wouldn't want that. Anyway, clearing roads is a lot better than having to ride at breakneck speed to relieve some guards who do not know they are being relieved and almost put a pair of arrows in you for your troubles!"

"You are on patrol today, dear friend," Lhanton said darkly. "_You_ won't be clearing any roads. Besides, it wasn't that bad."

"Not for you, maybe. You could sleep!" Serothlain protested. "You had almost two hours while I didn't sleep at all!"

"And I am eternally grateful, my friend."

"Of course you are."

"You three are like a married couple sometimes," Halbarad said earnestly. "Well – a married triple. How you two can share a tent," he looked at Ciryon and Serothlain, "and not kill each other or go insane is a miracle."

"What do you mean, 'not go insane'?" Lhanton asked under his breath. "It's a bit late for that, don't you think?"

"True," Halbarad agreed in mock seriousness, exchanging an amused look with Aragorn. "Even though … oh. I think I have to … deliver a message to the captain. An important message. Right now. Excuse me."

The other four rangers looked at his swiftly retreating back in bewilderment, not one of them being able to figure out what had just happened. Lhanton was apparently just about to ask something along these lines when he spotted something over Aragorn's shoulder, presumably the same something that had caused the captain's son to flee so suddenly.

"I think the lad was quite right," he told no one in particular, his eyes already darting around in search for some cover or any kind of occupation. A ranger led his horse past them, and his face lit up. "Oh dear, I think that horse is losing a shoe. I'd better tell him or the poor beast might get … hurt."

A second later he was gone, and Aragorn didn't even have to look over his shoulder to know what the others had seen that had so swiftly – and probably correctly – been categorised as "Dangerous and Potentially Fatal, Seek Cover!"

"Yes." Ciryon nodded quickly and grasped his friend's sleeve, tugging at it urgently. "If you would excuse us, Estel … there is a lot to do … people to find … tools to prepare … roads to be cleared…"

In less time than he would have thought physically possible, Aragorn was left standing alone by the white tent whose canvas flapped slightly in the brisk morning breeze. He knew who was standing behind him, waiting with that terrible, almost menacing patience that all Firstborn possessed and that, as he was firmly convinced, had already driven more than one mortal to distraction or madness. The other rangers hadn't stood a chance and had most certainly made the right choice.

Aragorn sighed inwardly. In Haldar's defence, he had never expressly told him not to tell anybody about the dream. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and turned around, a bright smile firmly attached to his features.

"Good morning!"

The three elven _looks_ that met his words were quite telling and so heavy that Aragorn almost brought a hand to his forehead to look for the dent that they must have left upon impact. Three eyebrows, two dark ones and a fair one, were raised in unison to emphasise the unspoken point.

"Good morning, _muindor nín_," Elrohir finally said evenly, looking at him in a way that an inexperienced person would have called 'friendly-uninvolved'. Aragorn, who knew his brothers probably as well as any man could know an elf, knew better, though, and winced. "We have something to discuss with you. Something that should be addressed in private."

The younger twin extended his arm in invitation, his open, relaxed palm gesturing into the direction of the twins' tent. Aragorn felt how something in his chest tightened. They were letting Elrohir do the talking, who was ostentatiously friendly and looked far too relaxed and unconcerned. This was Bad, with a capital "B". Knowing when to admit defeat was a thing Aragorn had learned quite early – a necessity when growing up among elves –, and so he quietly ducked his head and allowed himself to be escorted to the twins' tent.

He knew what was coming, and so he was almost grateful when they waited until the tent flaps had settled back into place before they started berating him.

Almost.

"So." 

It was all Elladan said, but it was more than enough. Not even the fact that the twin had spoken Quenya, which – at least in Aragorn's opinion – was the more beautiful of the two more commonly spoken Elvish languages, managed to cheer him up. When his oldest brother was angry, he yelled at you, but when he was disappointed, he only grew quiet – the sort of quiet that comes with a kind of dark menace that was quite hard to bear.

Legolas, who hadn't seen the twins lose their patience with him often, shot Elladan a look that was somewhere between surprised and confused. He looked as if he had expected a lot from the older twin, including him trying to rip his youngest brother's arms off and beat him over the head with them until he saw some sort of reason, but not this utter calmness. Aragorn would have sighed if he didn't know that that would make everything even worse. If he was only so lucky! He was sure that there was something worse than Elladan when he was in this kind of mood, somewhere, but he hadn't encountered it yet.

Nor had anyone else he knew, come to think about it.

"You spoke with Haldar."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement, uttered in a sort of hopeless certainty that Legolas was sure he had heard before. It took the elven prince some time to remember where: In the voice of one of their captains who had just been told by his colleagues that he was the one who would have to explain to the king just how his son and heir had come to be in this particular condition, _again_. He frowned inwardly. He didn't usually forget things like that, but, in his own defence, he had been more or less unconscious at the time.

Elladan's eyebrows had shot up towards his hairline when he had heard his human brother's words, and even now, several seconds later, they seemed disinclined to return to their earlier position.

"You could say that," the older twin conceded, a look in his eyes that was quite impossible to describe. "Or rather, he spoke with us."

"It would have been nice," Elrohir interjected in a deceivingly mild tone of voice, "to know what in the name of all the Valar he was talking about before he hit us over the head with it."

"What…" Aragorn had to stop to swallow and clear his throat. He hadn't seen his brothers in just this kind of mood in … well, since he had told them he would accompany Haldar. What was worse was that, this time, he really did feel guilty. "What did he say?"

"Why didn't you tell us, Estel?" Elladan asked, clearly resisting the urge to take a step forward into Aragorn's personal space. "Or is a dream like that too unimportant to mention to us? What else aren't you telling us?"

Forget about Bad, Aragorn told himself and slumped back against the tent pole at his back. This was Worse.

"Then you already know."

"No, Estel," Elrohir stressed, his voice very serious and sounding a lot as if he would have liked to use his real name, something that the twins usually only did if they were disappointed in him or wanted to make a point. "We do not know. And do you know why? Because you did not tell us. Us, your own brothers!"

"What would I have told you, Elrohir?" Aragorn asked tiredly. "Something along the lines of 'Good morning, brothers, I had another nightmare and am now seriously thinking about never going to sleep again. How was your night?'?"

"It would have been a start," Legolas said, a small smile on his lips. The wood-elf had obviously decided to be the Voice of Reason again, Aragorn thought. It wasn't hard, mind you, not in this kind of company. "A rather promising one, even."

Aragorn fought a small, erratic chuckle that wanted to escape his lips. A few seconds later he tried to remember why he was doing it and gave in. The panic that had been tearing at his nerves ever since the night before last was threatening to rise to the surface again, and, this time, he might not be able to push it down again.

"I am sorry, _mellon nín_. I don't know what I was thinking; maybe I haven't been getting enough sleep lately."

If Aragorn hadn't been so busy studying the tips of his boots, he might have seen the first cracks appear in the twins' masks. They hadn't forgiven him yet, Legolas decided rather objectively, but, as Aragorn had said himself once, they had yet to resist one of the man's _really_ pitiful looks.

"What was it about, then?" Elladan asked, giving in. He still sounded somewhat gruff, but it was a long way away from his icy calmness from earlier. "Haldar didn't know anything specific either, only that you had a nightmare."

Elrohir nodded next to him in silent agreement. Legolas noted that both twins looked inordinately pleased about the fact that Haldar, while he might have known about the problem before they had, still hadn't really _known_ anything either.

Aragorn didn't answer immediately and only ran a hand over his face, methodically brushing his hair back even when there was no strand left to bother him in any way. If there had been a way to talk his way out of this that his brothers and Legolas wouldn't detect, he would have chosen it immediately and Glorfindel's list of Things-an-elf-lord-does-and-doesn't-do be damned.

Unfortunately, they knew him far too well to accept anything but the full truth, or something very close to it.

"It started like the other one," he began, not even aware that his voice was devoid of all emotion and sounded like that of a weary old man. "Like the one I had before the wargs attacked, do you remember it?"

Elrohir exchanged an astonished look with his wood-elven friend. Did they _remember_?!

"How could we forget, Estel?" he asked. "You almost broke Legolas' nose and…"

"He wouldn't have if you had just held on to his arm properly."

"…and a few seconds later wargs tried to tear our throats out," the younger twin continued, ignoring Legolas' words. "I don't know about you, but I thought it was rather memorable."

"Yes, well," Aragorn said and rubbed the back of his neck, apparently having decided that he had brushed back his hair long enough now. "It started like that. It was … dark, very dark. Not dark as in … as dark as night, but…"

He trailed off, unable to describe what he had seen even after so many dreams and nightmares, and the twins exchanged a look that Legolas didn't even want to try and decipher.

"A darkness that feels like some menacing, living thing that lays itself over you as if it wishes to smother you under its weight and fill your very soul with blackness?"

Aragorn looked up, startled. Legolas directed a similar look at Elladan, while his twin only looked steadily at his human brother, such deep pity and fear in his eyes that Legolas had to avoid his eyes.

"Yes," the young ranger said, his voice wavering slightly. "Exactly like that. How did you…?"

"Both of us have had dreams like that, _muindor_." Elladan smiled at him, a gentle smile that died as quickly as it had appeared. "Too many times, really."

Aragorn nodded wordlessly and slung his arms around himself as if he was cold, even though that could not be, Legolas thought with an inward frown. Humans felt heat and cold far more keenly than the Firstborn, and the Dúnedain were no exception. Right now even he felt the summer heat that even the white canvas walls could not keep out.

"It was like that, yes," Aragorn went on. He was very careful not to look at any of them directly. "I … I think there was a stone floor beneath my feet, but I am not certain. I could have imagined it. But then … then it changed."

"What changed, Estel?" Elrohir asked when it became clear that the man would say no more. All earlier signs of irritation had long since disappeared, leaving behind only worry and a vague sort of dread. "Did you see what you saw before? The star, and…"

"No." Aragorn shook his head quickly. "That is what I meant. I didn't see the star, or fire or blood or any of the other things that I saw at home or the last time. I have thought about it, and I can't explain it either. But … but it felt more as if it was a dream, and not a vision." The man looked up, saw the incomprehension on Legolas' face and gave him a small smile. "I am not making a lot of sense, am I? It felt more as if the things I saw were things I really saw, or could have seen, at least. It wasn't about somebody else, not about somebody else's pain and fear. It wasn't really mine either, but … well, somehow it was, too."

Legolas did his best not to betray just how confused he really was. The twins were nodding wisely to his right, as if they knew exactly what their brother was talking about. They probably did, too, he thought with no small amount of vexation. They understood Aragorn in a way that he never would be able to, no matter how much he tried or what he did. It was nothing to be jealous about, he was perfectly aware of that, but it was … vexing. Nothing more, nothing less.

"It is possible." Elrohir nodded thoughtfully. "It might be that you felt … echoes before, echoes of things that had already happened, or were happening."

Aragorn looked relieved, far too relieved for Legolas' taste, and it made the wood-elf immediately suspicious. The man could be quite devious when he put his mind to it, and he had no trouble imagining that he _would_ put his mind to it if it meant escaping this conversation as quickly as possible.

"What did it change into then?" he asked, knowing that he had found the proverbial sore spot when Aragorn's face froze almost immediately. He hated doing this to his friend, he really did, but something told him that this was too important to let go. "You said your dream changed – into what?"

If Aragorn hadn't been convinced that it wouldn't change anything at all, he would have glared at the elf. This way, he only exhaled and decided to give up. They wanted the whole truth? Fine. They could have it.

"I was alone in the beginning, only I and the darkness. Then _he_ appeared."

Legolas almost felt how his heart stopped. Surely Aragorn did not mean Him, did he? Elladan, however, had come to a different and more accurate conclusion, and thankfully voiced it before the panic inside of the elven prince had the chance to grow and rise to the surface.

"He?" Elrond's oldest son repeated. "You mean the figure you saw in your last dream?"

"Yes," Aragorn answered curtly. "Him. I don't know if he is a man or an elf or something else entirely, but he's male, at least that is what I think. I didn't see more of him than I saw the last time, but…"

"But?" Elladan prompted gently.

"But I think he was _there_." Aragorn lifted his head to look at his oldest brother. "Does that make any sense? He didn't touch me or even say anything, but I had the feeling that he was there, or at least as much there as I was."

It did make sense. Legolas wasn't quite sure in what way, but about one thing he was certain: This wasn't good. If he hadn't disliked Haldar so much for getting Aragorn involved in all this, he would have hugged the ranger on the spot. He had been right to come to the twins, that much was certain.

"Did he do anything?" Elrohir interjected, face pale and serious. It was clear that the twin hoped to gather as much information as possible, and be it only to disregard it and tell his little brother whatever he needed to hear. "You already said that he didn't speak, but did he make a gesture or something like it?"

"He appeared out of the darkness as if he belonged to it, or it to him," Aragorn said slowly. "There was … hatred, a dark, deep-seated hatred that clouds the mind and seeps into your heart until you cannot think or feel or breathe. The kind of hatred that makes you do whatever you can to silence that darkness inside of you, and be it only for a little while."

The twins and Legolas exchanged a look. They knew exactly what kind of darkness Aragorn was talking about. While they were too young to have seen the Days of the Last Alliance, and, before that, the Days of the Darkening of Beleriand, they had heard many stories, told by their fathers and many of their friends and captains. It was the kind of hatred that had driven the Noldor to slaughter their kin and the Sindar and Noldor to kill each other in long, bloody battles, the kind of hatred that had hung over Middle-earth for so many dark years.

"I think it was connected to him, the dark figure," Aragorn went on, oblivious to their thoughts. "Perhaps it was even his; I do not know. He took a step towards me, and I asked him who he was. He did not answer me, but I am sure he heard me."

The shock that went through the twins was so tangible that Legolas unconsciously took a step forward in case they faltered. They didn't move, however, and only stared with wide eyes at their adopted brother, either unwilling or unable to speak.

"What happened then?" Legolas finally asked. Aragorn didn't seem to notice his brothers' shock and was only staring at the white canvas in front of him.

"My head seemed to explode," Aragorn said bluntly. "I have never felt such pain before. It felt as if a troll had taken my skull into its hand and was slowly beginning to squeeze. It grew worse and worse, and then I just woke up."

Legolas very strongly suspected that there was no "just" involved in all this in any way. He was about to say something like that when he saw that the twins were still staring at Aragorn with that shocked look of theirs. It was beginning to wear off now, however, and was slowly making way for naked worry.

"Elladan? Elrohir?" he asked, feeling like a shipwrecked sailor standing on a raft and watching how the planks broke away one by one. "What is it?"

The two dark-haired elves exchanged another one of their looks that Legolas was almost beginning to resent, and finally Elrohir opened his mouth.  
"You said that you asked him something, Estel. And that he heard you."

"I think he heard me," Aragorn corrected, cocking his head slightly to the side as he studied his brothers. "But yes, that is what I said."

"In … in 'normal' visions you don't interact with people, Estel. Usually, you barely have enough presence of mind left to take in what is going on," Elrohir said, sounding as if he was using all of his not inconsiderable self-restraint to force himself to calmness. "That is, I have never experienced it differently, nor has Elladan or _ada_. I have in fact never heard of it happening to anybody."

"It is rare to see something so clearly that you can actually hear what is spoken," Elladan agreed, nodding slightly. "But if you do, it still has nothing to do with you, strictly speaking. You could talk as well, I suppose, even though one rarely finds the time or opportunity, but no one will hear you or answer you."

"Estel said this figure did not answer him," Legolas said. He didn't really know where this was going, but he knew that he didn't like it one bit.

"I think he heard me, though," Aragorn said quietly. "He simply did not choose to speak to me."

"And who could blame him?" Elladan said in a tone of voice that was so cold that even Elrohir looked at him in surprise. "I would most certainly not talk to one of the people I am aiming to destroy."

For a few seconds, it was completely silent. It was Legolas who found his voice first.

"You think that that … dark, hooded figure in his dreams is the one behind all this? Why would he do it? Is such a thing even possible?"

"Oh yes," Elladan said darkly. "There are people and … creatures … who can accomplish such feats, without trouble or even much effort."

Legolas seemed to have barely listened.  
"Surely he does not know who Estel is and that he is here now? How would he have found out? Elladan, if this is true, we must return to Imladris immediately. Estel is not safe here."

"Estel," Aragorn stressed his name slightly, "is standing right next to you, _mellon nín_. And he can speak for himself, thank you very much."

Elrohir shot his human a quelling look before he turned back to his fair-haired friend who was so wide-eyed that it was a miracle that his eyeballs were still attached.

"I don't know, Legolas. I wish we could answer that question, but we can't. We do not even know if our conclusion is correct or not."

"Let us _assume _that it is, then."

Legolas' voice was at least as cold as Elladan's had been a few moments earlier, and right now no one would have doubted who his father was. There was no one who could stare at you with just the same kind of iciness in his eyes as King Thranduil.

"If it is," Elladan went on, shooting Aragorn who was following the entire exchange with large eyes a quick look, "then I, for one, do not think so. If Estel can't make out his face, then it is unlikely that the other can. There has been no contact, and they haven't spoken to each other. They could, though, I think. If they wanted to."

"They don't," Aragorn said firmly. "I do not want to talk to this … person, whoever he might be. And most certainly not in a dream that might be nothing but a figment of my imagination."

"That is a very commendable attitude, Estel." Elladan smiled at him. "Do not attempt to do so. If we are correct, he might indeed be the one we are seeking. I do not know how he is doing this, but I will find out. And until then, he must not learn anything about you, do you understand me?"

"Yes, _ada_." Aragorn grimaced sourly. "I am not a moron, Elladan. I did not intend to walk up to him the next time I see … or dream … him and introduce myself with a bow." Elladan shrugged slightly in a kind of apology, and the man's face suddenly became still and very, very serious. "Is he seeking me out?" he asked in a small tone of voice. "Does he know or suspect that I have these … abilities … and uses them to find me? To find us?"

"No. No, Estel." Elrohir quickly shook his head. "I do not think so. It is possible, of course, but I think it is unlikely. From what you have told us, these … encounters … are fairly random and very brief. You control them to a certain degree, do you not?"

"If you want to put it like that." Aragorn's smile turned from sour to almost bitter. "I jerk awake, yes."

"Yes, but _you_ do it," Elrohir went on. "At least this time you did. I think that if he was seeking you out with the purpose of looking for you, he would do it in a more … organised … fashion. A more purposeful fashion. He would seek to make you talk to him, to reveal something about yourself. All this, all that is happening, would serve no purpose, not for him."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed after a while, profound relief on his face. He tried to hide it, of course, but didn't even get close. "Yes, it would seem so, wouldn't it?"

The tension in the air diminished a little. Elrohir nodded slightly and took Aragorn's uninjured hand between his, looking down on his human brother with dark, serious grey eyes.

"This has gone beyond nightmares, Estel. The next time you dream about this … figure, or have any other kind of nightmare or vision, you _must_ tell us. And then," the younger twin did his best to mask his slight distaste, "we must also tell Daervagor. This concerns him also and all his men, and he deserves to know."

Aragorn sighed and tried to argue with his brothers, but they would hear none of it. Legolas barely listened to the words they spoke as he tried to make sense of all he had heard, his mind still working hard to grasp all of it. He was sure that he, as the only person in the tent who had no first-hand experience with visions and these kinds of nightmares, only understood a part of all this, but one thing shone in his mind with the crystal clarity of a beacon: Aragorn might be dreaming about the person who was behind the disappearances, about the person who had killed so many of his people.

Someone was _doing_ this to his friend.

To his right, the twins had convinced the young man that their course of action was the right one, but Legolas barely took note of it. Something small and cold had been born inside of him, an icy determination that was accompanied by a terrible certainty and was growing steadily.

He would find the one responsible for this, and then, by Oromë's horn, he would show him what a nightmare was _really_ like.  
**  
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**Darkness was falling as the night spread its dark tendrils over the river and mountains and swept down into the valley, and Glorfindel couldn't bring himself to look away.

The golden-haired elf lord sighed. He had returned from patrolling the borders with Captain Elvynd and his men about an hour earlier and was now, after having spent a day in the heat of the strong sun, quite exhausted. He had managed to wash himself without drowning – which had looked like a definite possibility for some time, mind you – and had, after donning the lightest shirt he could find and simple breeches, come to watch the sunset in peace.

The sunset obviously included darkness, even though he couldn't for the life of him explain his sudden unease.

Before his first death, before his home had come crashing down around him in shadow and flame and the entire world had seemed to have been set alight, he had liked the darkness. It was a concept that was now quite alien to him, almost as alien as the idea of anybody liking an orc. Still, darkness had held no fear for him, nothing to be dreaded or fought against. Then Gondolin had fallen and with her his entire world and everything and everyone he had held dear. The last memory he had of his home was being pulled down into the dark abyss with the balrog as it fell, the demon's whip and wings beating madly around their intertwined bodies even as he felt his body die.

For long years after his resurrection, he had indeed feared the darkness. He had never told anybody about it, of course, not even Elrond or Gil-galad. The half-elf had found out about it eventually, something that somehow hadn't seemed to matter so terribly much to him, especially because Elrond had been so young still, young enough to clearly remember his violent childhood and fear the darkness for what he knew it could be hiding. Back then, he had still had his twin's company and silent support, though, and so he, too, had been quite proficient at hiding his fears. And Ereinion … well, the High King had always seemed to know things without anybody even telling him. He had never mentioned it to him, but Glorfindel was sure that Gil-galad had known.

Now, of course, things were different. He was older now and wiser, or so he hoped, and he knew that the darkness itself was nothing to be feared. He did not like it, but he was not afraid of it – usually, that was. Tonight, things were different. The most prominent feeling he had was one of dread-filled urgency, almost a desire to start running and not look back – to do anything in his power in order not to let the darkness catch up with him.

Glorfindel did not understand that urge. He was long past the time when darkness had frightened him in any way. He shouldn't react like this.

"You know," a soft voice behind him commented, "if I did something like this, I would be 'brooding' and would never hear the end of it. Come to think about it, it is rather unfair that you are allowed to do it."

Glorfindel smiled at the encroaching darkness that immediately seemed to lose some of its menacing character.  
"Ah, but such is life, _mellon nín_. Hard, messy and thoroughly unfair."

"Especially when one is your friend," Erestor remarked wryly as he took another step forward, stopping when he almost touched the balustrade Glorfindel was perched on. The Bruinen was somewhere far, far below them, and even though he had nothing but complete trust in his friend's sense of balance, he couldn't help but wonder what would happen should it fail him. "You know, perching on a banister like this is actually a rather un-elf-lordly thing to do."

"I wrote the list," Glorfindel said uncompromisingly, but there was a smile on his face that belied his severe tone of voice. "I get to decide what is elf-lordly and what isn't. It is one of the advantages of authorship."

To emphasise his point, he pulled a leg up to his chest, something that should have been completely impossibly in his current position. It should have been even more impossible for someone to do it and not plummet to his doom. Erestor eyed his friend with a mixture of distaste and amusement, and Glorfindel shot him a sly look, grinning.

"Why don't you join me, my Lord Erestor? I promise you not to tell anybody about your shockingly un-elf-lordly behaviour."

Erestor raised an eyebrow as he pointedly looked at his own attire – a long robe that was much more appropriate than a shirt and breeches – and then at the thin, carved wooden balustrade.

"Is this another one of your jokes, my lord, or are you trying to get me killed? You cannot sneak up on people when wearing a robe, as I told you – and you also cannot act like an overgrown elfling."

"Why, my friend," Glorfindel said, blue eyes wide with mock innocence, "don't you like to climb?"

"This isn't climbing." Erestor shook his head decisively. "This is … perching. And no, I do not like it."

Glorfindel shrugged and twisted his body further around until he was more or less hovering above the balustrade without truly changing his position. Again, it should not have been possible, at least not without falling or breaking or dislocating multiple bones and joints, but Erestor had stopped concerning himself with trivialities such as what was possible and what wasn't. This was Glorfindel, after all, who, even for someone with Vanyarin blood, was quite strange indeed. All he did in the end was direct another look of loathing at the blond elf.

"Do you have a solid bone _anywhere_ in your body?"

Glorfindel seemed to think about that for a few moments and finally shrugged again.  
"I am not entirely certain, to be honest. I suppose there might be one or two."

"That would explain quite a lot," Erestor grumbled, but there was a teasing light in his eyes that Glorfindel had been missing for a long time now.

"I am sure about it, my friend."

Glorfindel nodded serenely, knowing that this would infuriate the other elf lord far more than a continued argument. He didn't really know when they had started teasing each other again after Donrag, and he almost didn't dare contemplate it too closely. He was still afraid that, if he looked at this improved situation, it might disappear to be replaced by the former tense silences and furtive looks or something even worse. It wasn't hard to imagine such a thing, especially for someone who knew Erestor.

"Why are you here?" he asked before he could stop himself, and wished only a second later that he could retract the hastily spoken words and erase all signs of their short existence. Their relationship was slowly returning to normal, yes, but that didn't mean that Erestor couldn't retreat back behind these walls he had thrown up and fortified over months if he saw it necessary or felt himself threatened. And he _would_ do it, too.

Thankfully, Erestor didn't do it, at least not immediately. The dark-haired councillor grew a little stiller, his face becoming expressionless, but at least he remained where he was. Glorfindel had half-expected him to simply turn around and leave.

"Why?" Erestor asked, expressionless eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. "Are you afraid I came to throw myself off this platform? You do sound like it, you know."

"No!" Glorfindel quickly shook his head. He couldn't hide the look of incredulous horror that flashed over his face. "Eru, no, Erestor. I do not think that. No matter what, I am sure you wouldn't do that."

"Oh, I don't know," Erestor said lightly and only partly out of a dark desire to see Glorfindel squirm. "I wouldn't be so quick with my absolutes if I were you, my friend."

He had almost expected another one of Glorfindel's lectures about How Everything Will Be Just Fine or an openly worried look at the very least. Instead, the fair-haired elf only nodded his head thoughtfully, and Erestor felt how shame filled his heart. Just why would he think that Glorfindel wouldn't understand him, especially after he had told him in Donrag about his own experiences with captivity and hopelessness?

"You are right." Glorfindel nodded, his serious eyes fixed unwaveringly on his face. "My words were ill-chosen. There are times when such an action is the only way out. I know that, or should know it at least – maybe better than most. Forgive me."

"What for, Glorfindel?" Erestor asked with a small, self-deprecating smile. "I ... over-reacted, just as I have so many times in the past few weeks."

Glorfindel looked at him with large eyes, clearly trying to come up with an appropriate response. It was a well-known fact that Lord Erestor did not like to admit his shortcomings – just who did? – and lately … well, it was safe to say that said fact had become even more deeply imbedded in the minds of Rivendell's residents.

"That … is one way of putting it," the blond elf lord finally said in what he doubtlessly thought to be a diplomatic tone of voice.

Erestor, who had attended more meetings and conferences than – as he secretly thought – there were stars in the sky, snorted inwardly. He had once witnessed Lord Thranduil openly declare that he had nothing but the highest respect for the Noldorin princes in general and Lord Celeborn in particular, and even _he_ had sounded more convincing than this.

"I am … grateful … for your patience, Glorfindel," he said, choosing his words with care and forcing himself to actually articulate them. "The last months have been … difficult."

Glorfindel, who knew in just what state of mind his friend was when he started enriching his sentences with this kind of pauses, only smiled at the other elf lord. He knew what this cost Erestor, especially considering how fragile their friendship was at the moment.

"For all of us, my friend," he said and thus graciously opened the other elf lord a way out of this. "For all of us."

Erestor narrowed his eyes at the other elf, concern immediately overriding all his other emotions. Glorfindel – contrary to his earlier statement – did choose his words with care, and rarely said something without reason.  
"Why are _you_ here, my lord? Is there something amiss?"

"No," Glorfindel said a little too quickly. "Yes. I do not know. I have the strangest feeling … a feeling I cannot seem to explain. I cannot identify it. I am trying, but it doesn't make any sense at all."

Erestor, who knew the older elf quite well, nodded thoughtfully, and, not for the first time this evening, did the exact opposite of what Glorfindel expected him to do.

"I see. Come with me and help me find Elrond."

"Find Elrond," Glorfindel repeated, torn between confusion and surprise. Unconsciously, he already began to unfold himself, preparing to leave his rather dangerous perch. "What for?"

"It is almost dinnertime," Erestor stated matter-of-factly. "He hasn't been eating enough lately. Nor has he rested."

"If Elrond knew you were spying on him, he wouldn't be very pleased," Glorfindel informed his friend quite needlessly as he dropped onto the stone floor and followed him.

"I am not spying on him," Erestor said. "I am worried about him, and so are you, by the way, so don't even try to deny it. Besides, he already knows."

He would, too, Glorfindel thought to himself. There wasn't a lot that happened in Rivendell and that her half-elven master did not know about, and even less when it concerned his friends. Apart from that, Erestor was right, of course, even though there was no need to tell him that. He _was_ worried about Elrond, who wasn't resting or eating as he should be. The half-elf was worried about his sons and the prince and his companion – and only a fool would have said that he worried needlessly –, but that didn't mean that he was allowed to work himself into the ground, as he was apparently trying to at the moment.

"All right," he said after a few moments of silence. "If you are not spying on him, then how do you know where he will be? He is not in his office; I walked past it on my way here and it was quite empty."

Erestor gave him a look he hadn't seen in far too long a time, the one that generally suggested that someone had dropped him on his head when he had been a toddler.

"I do not know where he is, but I can guess," the councillor informed him. Glorfindel raised his eyebrows but followed him without protest, and he added, "And I am not spying on him. I do not _spy_."

"No," Glorfindel agreed in mock seriousness. "You have the cooks for that."

Erestor stopped, looking truly puzzled.  
"I have the who for what?"

"Never mind," Glorfindel said hurriedly and ushered him onwards. There was no reason to let his friend know about the widely accepted theory that he was using (or misusing, depending on the speaker's point of view) the cooks as a means to keep his spy net at peak efficiency. "Where is he, then?"

Erestor shot him a quick look that hinted that this was not over yet, but allowed Glorfindel to lightly hold onto his arm for a full three seconds before he shrugged out of his grip as calmly as he could, ignoring the cold sweat that suddenly beaded his brow.

"He is his father's son," he said lightly, his voice sounding calm and composed. "When he is worried, it shows more than usual."

Glorfindel frowned, remembering how Elrond had told him once about Elros' and his favourite pastimes when the two of them had been elflings.  
"So he'll have climbed a ship's mast, then? Erestor, if you manage to find one in Rivendell, I'll take back what I said about Nr. 16 of the young ones' list."

If he was perfectly honest, Erestor didn't even remember what Nr. 16 of the list had been – he hadn't _really_ thought it to be quite the mortal insult everybody seemed to be convinced he must consider it. He would never admit it, of course, and least of all to Glorfindel.

"Of course not," he said. This time, his look suggested that Glorfindel hadn't only been dropped on the head, but had also apparently never listened to his elders when they had been trying to teach him anything of importance. "He'll just go as high as he can get."

Glorfindel cocked his head to the side but didn't say anything, and soon they had climbed up two sets of stairs and were walking down a long, somewhat dusty corridor. They were in the part of the house that wasn't used frequently anymore – and if it was, then only as a sort of attic – and the elf lord suddenly recognised it as the place where Elladan liked to hide out when he didn't want to be found. He smiled slightly to himself. Like father, like son, like grandson, it seemed.

Erestor was right, of course. They found Elrond on the balcony of an unused room, leaning over the balustrade and looking at the swiftly falling darkness as if averting his eyes would mean something terrible and simultaneously as if he would have liked nothing better. With a small stab of unease, Glorfindel realised that this was what he must have looked like to Erestor no more than ten minutes ago.

Elrond, however, didn't seem to be quite as deeply in thought as he had been, because they didn't manage to surprise him. The half-elf had been a warrior far longer than he had been a healer, and it was notoriously hard to sneak up on him in any way. Glorfindel knew; he had paid for that knowledge with bruises to various part of his anatomy and, occasionally, to his pride.

"Erestor." Elrond nodded his head without turning around or averting his eyes. "Glorfindel. Good evening."

"Good evening, my lord," Glorfindel said automatically. He looked at his friend a little more closely than usual, prompted by Erestor's earlier words, and found that he had been right. Elrond looked a little thinner than was his wont.

Feeling the older elf's intent eyes on him, Elrond finally wrenched his eyes away from the sight in front of him and turned around, his shoulders hunched as if against an attack. Glorfindel's own shoulders ached in sympathetic pain, and he felt how his unease intensified.

"What can I do for you?" Elrond asked with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Is there a problem with the inventory?"

Glorfindel scowled at his friend, inwardly refusing to let himself be distracted. Elrond wouldn't get rid of them so easily, oh no.  
"No problem, my friend," he said in exaggerated cheerfulness. "The work is fascinating, really. And Erestor's aides are _so much help_ that I hardly have to do anything!"

Erestor's aides were in fact a bunch of incompetent idiots, something he would never have expected he would have to say about anybody working for Erestor. Glorfindel was deeply and firmly convinced that the other elf lord had ordered his assistants to be of as little help as possible. He frowned inwardly. Erestor could get positively vicious when his precious records were involved.

Erestor blinked innocently, and Glorfindel almost felt how the hair covering the back of his neck stood on end. Oh yes, his dear friend had most definitely ordered his aides to act like bumbling morons. If he hadn't been so annoyed, he would have congratulated them on their acting ability.

"How fortunate," Erestor said mildly and in exactly the same tone of voice he would have used when being told that Sauron had narrowly avoided falling into one of the lava pools surrounding Barad-dûr. "Well, paperwork takes time."

Glorfindel, deciding that even dealing with this particular feeling he was having was better than dealing with Erestor when he was in this kind of mood, gave the dark-haired elf lord a last scorching look before he turned to Elrond.  
"Will you come to dinner with us? The cooks are beginning to look insulted because you never attend them anymore."

"That is not true," Elrond protested. "I do attend them. I have simply been … busy."

"Entirely understandable." Glorfindel nodded, deciding that now was not the time to point out that standing on a balcony and staring at the dark gates was not exactly what most people would call 'busy'. "You can surely spare an hour, _mellon nín_. I promise you to deliver you back here safely afterwards should you wish it."

"Thank you, Glorfindel, for that kind offer. Elbereth knows that I wouldn't know what to do without you to escort me through my own house." Elrond inclined his head, a mocking glint in his eyes. "But no, thank you."

"There are blackberry pies for dessert," Glorfindel offered as a last resort. Erestor shot him a look that openly questioned his intelligence, but he shrugged. Everybody knew that Elrond loved blackberry pies – well, he knew, at least – and if that didn't entice him to eat, nothing would.

"I am not very hungry tonight." Elrond shook his head, raising a hand as if to ward off the words that he knew would be spoken as soon as he closed his mouth. "I am _fine_, Glorfindel. Don't fret."

"He doesn't fret, my lord." Glorfindel did his best in order not to let his surprise show as help arrived from an unlikely source. Erestor ignored him and continued, his eyes not leaving his lord's face. "You have not been eating or resting properly since they left, Elrond. You cannot help them now, least of all by starving yourself and falling face-first into a pile of documents in exhaustion."

Elrond opened his mouth, looking as if he would have liked to argue, but closed it again with a small snap. He was clearly intelligent to know that Erestor had a point – and that he would inevitably lose any argument that found him facing both Glorfindel and Erestor at once. One of them, he could handle, but if they actually agreed on something, he would challenge even his mother-in-law to change their minds.

"I know that I cannot help them," he said quietly, slumping slightly against the railing without even noticing it. "That is what drives me to distraction. I don't think that I have ever been this afraid for Estel, except maybe when Cornallar had him."

Glorfindel's face froze slightly as he tried not to scowl. He hadn't been here when Elrond's former and by then quite clearly crazed ex-advisor had kidnapped the boy, and that was something he had never really forgiven himself. He knew, rationally, that he wouldn't have been able to change anything that really mattered, but rationality usually mattered little when such feelings were concerned.

"He will be all right, Elrond," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady and convincing. He knew very well just how much trouble the twins and their human brother could get into – and the addition of Prince Legolas and young Celylith was never a good thing. Usually, it increased the probability of mayhem, chaos and blood by about 300 percent. "The twins and the son of Thranduil will look after him, you know they will."

"We don't even know if Haldar's suspicions were correct," Erestor joined in, proclaiming what he knew Elrond wanted to hear and not necessarily what he thought to be true. "They might be, yes, but there still has been no proof. Unless," he began cautiously, exchanging a quick look with Glorfindel, "unless you have seen something…?"

Elrond didn't answer immediately, and Glorfindel almost found himself wishing that his friend _had_ seen something. Mustering the troops would be far better than this terrible, helpless waiting.

"No." The half-elf shook his head in the end, turning back to look at the dark valley spread out beneath his feet. "No, I have not seen anything. There has been no dream or vision. But I have this … feeling, a feeling that something is happening and that I cannot stop it, no matter what I do. A feeling as if there is something in the darkness, hiding in plain sight until it is time to strike."

A shiver raced across Glorfindel's back that he could not hide, and he ignored the look that Erestor gave him. Of course he would notice it, he thought almost sourly.  
"Is there anything we can do, my friend? Anything at all? You know that you only have to name it, and it shall be done."

"Except for finding a Vala willing to turn back time exactly seven days and stopping me from giving Estel permission to leave?" Elrond asked wryly. "No, my friends. There is nothing you can do."

"He would have left anyway, Elrond, you know that," Erestor told him. "He would have regretted doing it, surely, but he still would have done it. You bear no responsibility in this."

"No responsibility maybe," the half-elf agreed. He didn't even seem to notice that his hands were closing so firmly around the railing that his knuckles turned white. "No fault or guilt? Now that is a different thing, isn't it."

Erestor and Glorfindel exchanged a helpless look. There were things you learned quickly when serving the half-elven lord of Imladris, and among them was when to give up. Elrond wasn't willing to talk about this and wouldn't do it until he felt he was ready, and no amount of persuasion would change that. If the twins, Arwen or Estel were here, it would have been different, but they most certainly didn't stand a chance.

"Come, my friend," Glorfindel said again, deciding that the least they could do was get their friend down from here and into the dining hall. "There is a hot meal waiting for you, and I was serious about the blackberry pies. You will have to be quick, though; I am sure that they will be as popular as always."

"They might be gone by now," Erestor agreed. "I saw some of the younger captains eyeing them with something that can only be described as 'naked greed'." He paused and frowned. "Well, to be fair I have to admit that Captain Isál probably needs the nourishment, poor lad that he is."

"Why?" Elrond asked, but turned around to look at them. "It's not Dólvorn again, is it? Isn't he on patrol?"

"Well," Glorfindel began, "yes, he is. This time, it's Captain Elvynd."

"Do not tell me that he, too, has turned against him," Elrond said incredulously. He found the wedding problem quite entertaining, if he was perfectly honest. He could still remember the last few months before his own wedding to Celebrían, and if Isál felt anything like he had felt then, he did not envy him. He had been a nervous wreck. "And here I thought they were friends!"

"Oh, they are," the other elf lord affirmed. "The only problem is that Elvynd, as the son of the master of the warehouses, was in charge of procuring some of the rarer items and such, among them the very rare silks from Mithlond that were supposed to be turned into Lady Gaerîn's wedding dress. There was apparently some sort of misunderstanding, and so they were never ordered, or at least never delivered – you would have to ask Annorathil for details. Don't ask me how he is involved; I really don't think I want to know. Be that as it may, Gaerîn now refuses to talk to Isál, who in turn blames Elvynd and refuses to talk to _him_."

Elrond actually winced. He had never really understood why, but a wedding dress wasn't simply a dress. It was _the_ dress, the most important dress that an _elleth_ would in all probability ever wear, and he shuddered to think what this … catastrophe would mean. Lady Gaerîn was a formidable she-elf, after all, who as a healer knew her way around potentially deadly herbs, needles and razor-sharp knives, and if Captain Elvynd knew what was good for him, he would leave Imladris and not return until things had calmed down a little. Probably sometime next decade.

"The poor boy," he murmured, shaking his head. "Walking up to a dragon and kicking it in its kneecap is actually a quicker and more pleasant way to commit suicide."

"True," Glorfindel admitted with a grin. "Someone should have told him."

Elrond nodded, looking at the two of them, and finally sighed and gave them a smile.  
"All right," he said. "I will come to dinner. But only," he paused to give Glorfindel a threatening look, "if there really are some blackberry pies."

"There are, my lord," Glorfindel assured him. "I swear it."

"I know you, Glorfindel, and I still remember that little episode when Lord Thranduil came to visit with his father. Forgive me for failing to be suitably impressed."

"A wise attitude, my lord," Erestor agreed solemnly. "But I saw them, and will vouch for the veracity of his statement."

"That I will accept," Elrond said with a smile and a sly look in Glorfindel's direction. He pushed himself away from the railing and walked past them. "Are you coming, then? One always has to wait for you…"

Erestor looked after his lord and friend for a moment before he turned to Glorfindel, a questioning expression on his face.  
"Is there any chance of getting you to revise Nr. 11 of your list?"

"'Do not hit another elf lord'?" Glorfindel asked. "No, I am afraid not. I am relying on that for self-defence."

"More's the pity." Erestor shrugged. "Come, then. We wouldn't want to keep him _waiting_, now would we?"

He turned and followed Elrond who had already crossed the dusty room and was opening the door leading to the corridor. After a second, Glorfindel trailed after him, quietly rejoicing in the playful teasing that was once again becoming more the norm than the exception between them. He was still smiling slightly when he joined his friends in the corridor and followed them down to the dining hall.

But the unease he had felt ever since he saw the sun sinking below the horizon did not disappear, and if he looked closely enough, he saw the same darkness reflected in Elrond's worried grey eyes.  
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**The lads were beginning to get overly excited and impatient, and Skagrosh could even understand them. He would still beat anybody into the ground that questioned the master's authority and especially his own, but that didn't meant that he didn't understand them. He was an orc, and sympathy with anybody or anything was therefore quite far from his mind, but the concept was essentially the same.

Skagrosh shrugged his shoulder, feeling how the heavy, ill-fitting armour he had pilfered some months ago dug into a still raw cut on his upper torso. That little snake he had put in its place a few days ago had scored a lucky hit, which had caused the little brawl he had been involved in – which had started as nothing truly harmful and just a kind of evening's entertainment – to get out of control. As much as he liked participating in this kind of fun, he didn't like being cut by anybody, and least of all by a member of the Horde. The others knew this, and so no one had protested when he had grabbed the offender by his scrawny neck and had beat his head against a wall until he had stopped squirming.

No one had wanted to anger him, and no one had cared anyway. Fresh meat was fresh meat, and no orc would spoil something like that by arguing over things that weren't vitally important.

Still, it had been a long time since they'd had any form of _real_ entertainment. Brawls were one thing, even brawls where a bit of blood was spilled, but they really weren't any replacement for more interesting things, like having a pretty little ranger beg and scream. Skagrosh grinned, displaying pointy, rotten teeth. He wasn't overly choosy, of course. He would take a normal man, too.

Skagrosh snapped back to attention as the darkness in front of him shifted like mist on a plain, and the master appeared, moving as soundlessly as one of them cursed elves. He wore the dark cloak he always donned when he came back from _outside_, but no one moved quite like him. The sun had set long hours ago, but they had been ordered to stay inside this accursed cave that was rightly far too small to hold all of them.

Faint starlight was the only source of light available to light the cave's gloomy interior, but the orc didn't have to see the master' face to know what kind of expression he would be wearing. He had seen it too many times since he and the others had arrived here, and it still caused the unfamiliar, hated shiver of fear to run through him.

It wasn't an unfounded fear either. The master had been appointed by _Him_, and even if he hadn't been and disobedience hadn't meant an immediate and vastly painful death, he wouldn't have considered disregarding his orders. The master wasn't Him, obviously, but he was frightening in his own, very calm way. The fact that he served Him as well as the rest of them didn't change that at all.

Even Skagrosh, who wasn't the most intelligent of creatures, knew that He did not choose someone who was likely to fail. He also wasn't prone to choosing someone who was in any way hesitant to use everything in his power to ensure that the mission was accomplished.

"What is this I hear about some brawl?" the master asked, his voice sounding soft and harmless.

Skagrosh knew better, of course. In the beginning he had thought the master soft and harmless, too, and so had his predecessor, despite the fact that this was the one He had said they were to obey. It had been a mistake the other orc had swiftly paid for with his life, and Skagrosh didn't intend to make the same mistake. He was the leader now, and he rather liked it.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder where the master had heard about the brawl. He hadn't been here for several days now and had only arrived less than half an hour ago. Someone must have had problems keeping their mouths shut, and Skagrosh would almost have grinned openly. Finding out just who that had been would be a lot of fun, now that it would.

"Nothing, sir," he answered, immediately lowering his head. "Just a little … entertainment. Don't know where you heard that, sir."

For a few moments, the other didn't say or do anything. He simply stood there like a stone pillar, looking as if he wasn't even breathing, before – with a completely casual movement – he reached out and grasped the shorter being by the throat. Long fingers closed around the orc's windpipe, and all air left his lungs with an audible sound as he was swung around and slammed against the nearest stone wall.

"Now let me make some things perfectly clear, orc," he said, his voice still sounding as calm as if he was discussing the weather with a friend over a nice dinner. "We all serve the Master, but _you_ serve _me_. I tell you what to do and where to go, I decide who of you lives or dies – and _I_ provide the entertainment. Now, I do not tell you how to control your men; as long as you do as I say and follow my orders, I do not care. You are free to discipline them as you see fit. But no one, not even the most useless worm, gets used as 'entertainment' without my consent. Is that clear?"

If Skagrosh could have moved his head, he would have nodded frantically.  
"Y-yes, sir."

"Good." One could almost hear the large smile that had to adorn the hooded figure's face. He had almost set the unmoving orc back onto his feet when a thought seemed to strike him and he hoisted the still creature back up. "Oh, and one more thing: Do not _ever_ assume that you are my only source of information. I have cut your predecessor's throat, and I will happily cut yours should the need arise. I am sure I will be able to find someone to take your place."

Without another word, he let the orc drop back onto the ground. For a moment, no sound could be heard except for Skagrosh's wheezing as he tried to suck air into his lungs. The tall, hooded being turned away from him for a moment, looking at the entrance of the cave that was barely visible from where they were standing, before he turned back around.

"Has anybody come close to the cave?" he asked abruptly.

"No, sir," Skagrosh rasped. "No one has been spotted. We would have noticed."

There was a rather telling pause, but the tall figure apparently decided to let this pass without comment.

"Good. Since you are so very eager for some entertainment, I have a little job for you."

The silvery moonlight that managed to find its way this far down the twisting tunnel was enough to highlight the flash of pure, greedy blood-lust that appeared in the orc's eyes. A dark tongue was briefly visible as it darted out to wet cracked, pierced lips.

"Yes, sir."

The orc's patient tone of voice stood in stark contrast to the look in his eyes, and the smile once again crept back into the master's voice.  
"I thought you would be amenable to it. There is a group of rangers on the small road leading north-west; they have been there the whole day and will return tomorrow to clear the rest of it. I think we should pay them a visit tomorrow afternoon, as soon as you can travel."

Skagrosh winced. The master's idea of when they could travel and their own differed vastly, and stragglers were usually motivated by the liberal use of metal-laced whips.

"I will tell the others, sir. They will make good sport."

"Undoubtedly." The smile in the other's voice seemed to freeze. "There shouldn't be too many left in the afternoon; if we can, we will wait until there is only one or two left. You can proceed as usual once you have one of them, and don't worry about being gentle. We need results, and we need them fast. Still, I want one of them alive, if possible, the leader, and you are to _keep _him alive, entertainment or no entertainment. Is that understood?"

Skagrosh almost growled. Taking those _tarks _alive was far more difficult than it sounded. First, they almost always put up the kind of fight that made taking them alive almost impossible (they had, in fact, lost quite a few of them in that way), and second, it was damned hard to hit them just right. Give them a knock on the head that was just a bit too hard and you didn't have a prisoner, you only had dead meat. Keeping them alive was a bit easier, but not much, especially not when the others were being … enthusiastic.

"Yes, sir," he said. "It's been too long, really, sir. The lads are aching for a fight."

The master chuckled at that, a dark sound that bounced off the stone walls and was magnified and distorted by the twisting stone walls around them.

"They will get one. Oh, they will most certainly get one." He took a deep breath to calm himself and added, "Once we have what we want, you won't return here. It's too close and too easily found. I'll show you where to go."

He reached into his long cloak and produced a folded piece of parchment that Skagrosh knew was a map of this area. Skagrosh wasn't interested in geography of any kind, but even he, who usually considered such things as only good for kindling, had to admit that it was an incredibly detailed map that showed you even the tiniest bit of cover and the shallowest of caves. The only problem was that he never really could make sense of the damned scribbling.

"Yes, sir," he said again. He didn't think that the master really expected an answer, but it really couldn't hurt. The master only nodded and unfolded the map, and he added, "Will you return with us, sir?"

The hooded being didn't answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the parchment he held in his hands. His voice was nonchalant when he spoke, and if Skagrosh's mind hadn't been filled with images of blood and the pain he would soon be inflicting on some squirming little ranger, he would have noticed that he pointedly didn't look up.

"No," he said and shook his head slightly. "No, I will not. Things are beginning to get … interesting. I will be busy. Now, pay attention!"

Skagrosh shook himself out of his musings and did his best to comply. The master was in a foul mood tonight, that much obvious, but that was normal when he returned from _outside_ and happened more and more frequently. Not paying attention now might cost him an ear – or even the whole head, depending on _how_ foul the master's mood really was.

Besides, he didn't really care one way or the other. He would soon have another little worm to entertain himself with, one of those that bled so prettily, and that was all that mattered.

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_Dúnedain (Sindarin) - 'Men of the West', Rangers  
pen-velui (S.) - sweet one  
muindor (nín) (S.) - (my) brother (by blood)  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
elleth (S.) - elf-maid  
tarks (Black Speech) - Men of Gondor/of Númenórean heritage_

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I like Skagrosh. I know, I know, I'm sick and insane, but he's kind of ... straightforward, you know? Not nearly as complicated as the rest of this twisted little tale... All right. So, everything's getting interesting, and you know what? It really is! Because next chapter, we see just what happens when a more or less intelligent villain has access to a more or less well-trained horde of orcs. Oh, and also that the Valar really DO hate Aragorn and everybody connected with him, because he and the others stumble over a lot of unpleasant things and, of course, end up right in the middle of everything. And THAT, of course, leads to blood and chaos. Does that surprise anyone? Not really, I'd say... As always: Reviews? Yes, please! •g•**

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**Additional A/N:**

My apologies to Mirwen Sunrider (your email address might be working, but I can't see it! It's not listed under "email:", is it? I couldn't find it!), Tatsumaki-sama (as always! •g•), Sandra and Jessica for not replying to their reviews. Remember that you must have a valid email address listed on your profile page (or somewhere on your homepage where I can easily find it), or remember to give me an email address if you wish to review anonymously, because I reply to reviews via big group emails. If you don't want to do either, that's fine as well, of course! I am sorry for any inconvenience this might cause you. 


	14. Until Nightfall

** Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

Hey, guys! All right, now repeat after me: All hail Utemia! All hail Utemia! All hail Utemia! •readers stare• Has she gone insane, you ask yourselves? Is this it? Yes and no, my friends. See, I had this little problem with FF-net. Actually, I had it for nearly one and a half weeks. First it simply wouldn't let me access the main home page anymore, but I could still get to where I wanted if I typed in a category directly. Then, it wouldn't let me go anywhere but to my profile page. And then it didn't even allow me to do that. All other sites worked, but on FF-net all I got was "Error 53", no matter what I did or what browser I used. So, when I was seriously considering performing an exorcism on my stupid laptop (all those Latin lessons have to be good for something, right?), Utemia sent me an email and suggested that I install the Microsoft Service Pack 2 and any other update I could get my hands on. And, lo and behold! It's working! Apparently it was some kind of Windows bug.

So, a huge thank you to Utemia. I never would have thought of that - and now I have yet another reason to finally switch to Linux... •g•

Anyway, here I am, FINALLY. And because I couldn't update on time, I used the time to write some more than I usually would have (namely an extra scene to make the cliffy even more ... interesting) and can now present to you another extra-long chapter. So, what happens... Hmm, Celylith and Lhanton almost start a war between the Rangers and Mirkwood, Aragorn is waiting for his chance to say "I told you so!", Legolas is being sneaky, Amlaith is being annoying, someone's worst fears are realised, and Aragorn finds out that just when you think you've got used to a thing it usually goes ahead and turns into something else. Oh, and THAT of course leads to death and blood and doom and all those lovely things. •g•

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 14 

This was all going to end in blood and tears (and, possibly, a minor military altercation), Aragorn decided absentmindedly, and he'd be damned if he knew why he was the only one to see it.

Well, maybe he wasn't being quite as precise as he should be, given the severity of the situation. There were a lot of other people here to see this, but none of them seemed to be inclined to actually _do_ something about it.

That had most likely various reasons. Firstly, the Rangers were quite probably the most well-trained, experienced and also most respectful armed force north of Isengard (if one disregarded the warriors of Imladris), and they knew well enough not to get mixed up in anything that involved an elf and specifically a wood-elf. Secondly, they were only human, and every human liked a bit of entertainment once in a while. Thirdly, the officers and superiors of all parties involved had somehow disappeared, meaning that everybody was at their leisure and able to watch this unfolding disaster with lively curiosity. And fourthly … well, news of Celylith's strange behaviour had made its way through the camp, and no one wanted to tangle with a being that talked to bats in bags.

Or everybody was consciously and willingly partaking in this poorly disguised conspiracy to drive him mad, the young ranger decided. Thinking about it now, it did seem like the most likely possibility. It was something that the two of them would enjoy, that much was certain.

One of the two people he was thinking about looked at the other with wide eyes, disbelief creasing his forehead.  
"No. No, I do not believe this."

"Nonetheless, it is true." Celylith nodded his head affirmatively. "And I won the bet."

"I can see why," Lhanton admitted and gave the silver-haired elf a small smile. "I wouldn't have thought _that_ possible either."

"One word, Master Ranger, that you quickly learn not to use anymore when living in Mirkwood is 'impossible'," Celylith told the man. "If I told you about all the impossible things that have happened to me in the last few centuries, we'd still be here three days from now."

"Oh, please, Celylith, don't," Aragorn begged unashamedly. He had heard a few of the stories before, and he really didn't want to hear them again. Besides, they might give the others ideas.

"Why, Strider, I am hurt," Celylith declared airily, not sounding very hurt at all. "One could get the impression that you do not enjoy my company!"

If anything, he sounded slightly annoyed, as if Aragorn had unwittingly destroyed some clever scheme of his. Aragorn sighed inwardly. He had seen Celylith in this kind of mood before (and many other wood-elves as well), namely the Let's-see-where-the-next-card-game-is-taking-place-and-if-we-can't-bankrupt-some-dwarf-or-other mood. It never paid to be in the vicinity when it made an appearance.

"That's not how I would put it." It was only a single sentence, but Aragorn smothered it in so much sarcasm that, if words had needed to breathe, they would have suffocated on the spot.

"As I was saying, Master Lhanton," Celylith said, picking up the conversation just where he'd left it, "I have some experience with this sort of thing. I would be more than happy to accept that wager you offered."

Calculation, Aragorn decided, that was what filled the wood-elf's eyes. This must have been what Annatar had looked like when he had appeared in Eregion all these ages ago, with an innocent smile on his lips and a head full of "good, reasonable ideas". Aragorn silently decided that if the words "rings" or "forge" were even mentioned, he would get Ráca and leave, his responsibilities be damned. He didn't really know of whose ensuing wrath he would be scared the most, Captain Daervagor's or King Thranduil's, but he _did_ know one thing: He wouldn't stay to find out.

He had been raised by a household of Noldor, after all, and if he had learned one thing it was that anything that looked too good – and, more importantly, too innocent – to be true most likely was, too, and that if someone appeared with what looked like a perfectly good, innocent idea and without rock-solid credentials, you drew your sword and killed them and spared yourself a lot of trouble.

Well, technically speaking Celylith did have rock-solid credentials, but the principle still applied.

Lhanton was oblivious to his thoughts, it seemed. He looked at the wood-elf with large, innocent grey eyes that simply couldn't mirror his thoughts. _Nobody _was that innocent.

"Are you sure, Master Elf?" he asked, nothing but polite consideration in his voice. "I wouldn't want to take advantage of you."

Something flashed in Celylith's eyes, most likely that overly large pride that he and every other wood-elf he had ever met possessed, and Aragorn briefly closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree at his back. Opening them again, Aragorn tiredly decided that this was the one thing that would ensure that Celylith wouldn't back out of this … deal … the other ranger was proposing, and that Lhanton knew exactly what he was doing.

"Oh, you wouldn't," Celylith assured the man with a smile that was so bright and innocent that Aragorn almost had to shield his eyes against the glare. "Now, what was the amount we were talking about?"

The rangers around them – most of them younger ones that hadn't yet perfected the art of lurking in the vicinity without truly being noticed – looked from Celylith to Lhanton, as if unable to avert their eyes entirely. Aragorn could sympathise. It was like witnessing an accident: No matter how much you wanted to look away, you simply couldn't.

Giving the even-faced Lhanton and the other rangers (who weren't at all interested in what was going on here, he was sure) a quick look, Aragorn leaned forward and grasped Celylith's forearm. The large boulder they were sitting on was uneven and sloping downwards, and so Aragorn was actually looking down on the silver-haired elf for once.

"If you financially ruin one of my people," he began in low Quenya, intentionally slurring his words so that no one would understand him even if they had basic knowledge of the language, "I will have to hurt you." Celylith looked entirely unimpressed, and so he added, "And then I will tell Legolas."

Dark-blue eyes widened in genuine alarm.  
"I am not going to do anything to him. Besides, you wouldn't."

Aragorn merely raised an eyebrow.  
"I wouldn't?"

"You Noldor," Celylith said in disgust, cheerfully ignoring the way Aragorn dug his fingers into his forearm to emphasise his words. "I cannot back down now, Telcontar. The honour of the kingdom is at stake."

"Honour? What honour? You are about to swindle an innocent … well, a man out of several months of wages!"

"Wood-elves do not swindle, young one," Celylith said as he reached out and removed the man's hand from his forearm. "Somehow I am not surprised that your brothers didn't teach you about that. Now, if you would excuse me…"

He turned away to smile engagingly at Lhanton, and Aragorn admitted defeat. He could threaten the elf with roasting Lúthien on a spit, and it would probably only serve to make him more stubborn. Besides, he quite liked the little bat and wouldn't hurt her anyway, and Celylith knew it perfectly well, too.

"Where were we?"

Lhanton returned the smile, and while the two of them were discussing the specifics of the bet they had been plotting for nearly half an hour now, Aragorn decided that he wouldn't have needed to try and protect Lhanton. The older man knew exactly what he wanted and largely also how to get it, and by the time both Celylith and Lhanton had agreed on an arrangement that satisfied them both, he wasn't sure who was actually swindling whom.

Oh yes, he told himself gloomily. At least one military altercation.

"Well, my lord," Lhanton said as he and Celylith shook hands to seal the bet, "it is a pleasure to find someone who takes these things as seriously as I do."

"Oh, most certainly, Master Ranger," Celylith retorted amiably. "One must know where one's priorities lie."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call this a _priority_…"

Lhanton told this bold-faced lie without blushing. He was playing with a sparkling silver coin that had been polished until it gleamed brightly in the sun, balancing it on the back of his hand and passing it from finger to finger with a dexterity that Aragorn had never quite managed to achieve and that removed the last doubts he still harboured as to the other man's presumed innocence. Aragorn watched, spell-bound, how Lhanton moved the coin from his second finger to his little one and back again. If he kept his eyes on the coin, he told himself firmly, he wouldn't have to look up and meet the looks of the other rangers that, if they were mirroring even only a part of the pity that he could feel clogging the air, he most decidedly did _not_ want to see.

Thankfully, he was saved by the arrival of several rangers, and he looked up, noticing sourly that Lhanton and Celylith instantly assumed the air and posture of the two most innocent creatures on Arda, creatures that would never even think about something as deplorable and wrong as gambling.

As much as he wished for his friends and family and the rangers here to get along, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

"Estel," the taller of the two rangers said in a manner of greeting, stopping in front of them and giving them a smile that was too bright to be genuine. "Lhanton." He turned slightly to the side to give Celylith a small bow. "And Lord Celylith. A good morning to you."

The three of them nodded reflexively. Next to Haldar stood Halbarad, smiling at the three of them in a way that made Aragorn suspect that the young man had inherited his smile and personality from his mother rather than his father. For a second, he amused himself with trying to picture Captain Daervagor smile at anyone in quite that bright a manner before his imagination – formidable that it was – baulked at the idea, retreated into a corner of his brain and refused to come out again.

"Are you ready, Lhanton?" Halbarad asked the older ranger. "I have the missive right here. We can leave whenever you are ready."

"Leave?" Aragorn asked. "So you are not going to join Ciryon and his … volunteers?"

"Oh no, most definitely not." Lhanton shook his head, the coin wobbling and almost falling as he considered this. "I did my share yesterday, and if I never see a two-man saw again, it will be too soon. Today, I am on mail duty."

"You are indeed, since we did so well last time," Halbarad agreed, apparently just resisting the urge to take out the missive he had spoken of and wave it in the other ranger's face. "And do I have to remind you of what the captain will do to us if we don't leave in the next few minutes?"

"Ah, no, I do not think so." Lhanton shook his head again, but reluctantly flipped the coin up into the air, stood up and caught it deftly on its way down. A second later it had disappeared in a bag hanging at his belt. "I have been on the wrong side of the captain's anger more than once myself."

"There isn't a right side to it," Haldar remarked.

He turned half around and nodded at Ciryon and Serothlain, who were slowly coming closer, deeply immersed in conversation with several rangers. Among them Aragorn recognised Ereneth and Hírgaer, the two rather un-rangerly rangers he hadn't seen since the almost-argument three days ago. The younger brother was smiling broadly at something Ciryon was just saying, but Hírgaer, the fair-haired one, was looking just as grim as he had that evening. Keeping up _ this_ kind of expression must take quite a lot of concentration and willpower, Aragorn decided absentmindedly.

"Very true," Lhanton agreed evenly and turned to Halbarad. "Let's see if we can't make it to the gates before noon. I trust you have the captain's permission this time?"

Halbarad managed – to Aragorn's substantial surprise – not to blush or show his annoyance in any other way.

"No, Lhanton," he said in a scathing tone of voice that very much proved that he was indeed his father's son. "I snuck into his tent and stole this letter, because I have suddenly taken leave of my senses and developed suicidal tendencies."

"What a shame that would be, my friend," Serothlain remarked. "It would make our lives quite miserable, too, I dare say."

"Hardly more miserable than they'll be if we are late in returning," Halbarad said firmly, looking decidedly annoyed now. Aragorn barely suppressed a smile. It was quite obvious that Halbarad – as the youngest and most inexperienced warrior of the group – was being treated in much the same way that the twins usually treated him: With well-meaning, patronising affection. "We have to leave. A good day to you all."

"And to you, young one," Haldar said. "Be careful."

Halbarad didn't grace that with an answer and merely turned around and walked off, followed by Lhanton who gave them a faintly apologetic shrug and hurried to catch up with the younger ranger. Haldar looked after him for a moment before he turned back to the other rangers, faint guilt and reproach in his eyes as he looked at Serothlain and his tent mate.

"Why do you keep riling him so?"

"Why we … what?" Ciryon asked, the very image of righteous indignation. "_You _told him to be careful!"

Haldar, who might have held the same rank but was far more experienced and older than the other ranger, merely gave him a stare that shut him up as effectively as a knock to his head would have. Serothlain, seeing that this situation needed some de-escalation, cleared his throat and looked at the older ranger innocently.

"Are you ready then, my friend? The commander is waiting, and so are Ereneth and Hírgaer. They're stationed by the creek again, and we can travel with them some of the way. The village isn't far away, but we'll need some time there, especially if the elders are as argumentative as the last time."

Everybody was taking great care not to go anywhere alone, Aragorn noted, not even to the nearby Dúnedain village that couldn't be more than maybe an hour's ride away from here. He couldn't say that he was surprised. It was a sensible precaution, after all, and one he hoped would be successful. Deep down, in the dark corner of his heart that he usually kept shut away behind heavy doors barred with iron, he somehow doubted that it would. He still wasn't sure what he should think about Elladan's theory of him being somehow … connected to the one behind all this, but if it was true and he was, then he knew enough to be absolutely, completely certain that having to kill one ranger to get to another would not trouble him overly much – or at all.

"Yes, I am," Haldar said, giving Ciryon a mild glare, but refrained from saying what was obviously on his mind. A quick, almost undetectable look in Celylith's direction quickly told Aragorn why: Haldar was only now realising that there was an elf present. There were things one did not discuss in front of one of the Firstborn, it seemed, and especially a Firstborn who was largely an unknown factor and also considered to be quite … unusual. "Is the commander waiting at the main entrance?"

"He is indeed," Serothlain confirmed, and did not have to say more. It was widely known that Commander Cemendur was an impatient man, and not fond of waiting for his subordinates. "He has already been waiting for some time, I believe."

Haldar didn't wince, because that was something he didn't do in public, but Aragorn knew him well enough by now to know that he'd have liked to.  
"Very well, then," he said, sounding reluctant and dutiful at the same time. "Are you two ready?"

Ereneth and Hírgaer, who had been standing a few feet away, seemed to have been listening closely enough to know when they were being addressed.  
"Yes," the taller of the two simply said.

Haldar, not disturbed in the slightest by this rather succinct answer, nodded sharply.  
"Very well. I'll be there in a moment or two."

The two rangers didn't only know when they were being addressed; they also knew when they were being dismissed. Ereneth smiled and bowed slightly, wiping messy dark bangs out of his eyes as he straightened up and turned around. His brother waited for a second longer, his face completely emotionless, before he nodded at them, eyes almost impossibly green in the shadows that the large tree cast. The look that wandered from Celylith to Aragorn was blank and flat, and yet Aragorn couldn't help but feel uneasy, as if the fair-haired man had done far more than simply direct a look at him.

He watched as Hírgaer turned around without a word and followed his brother, having to hurry to catch up with his long-legged gait, and decided to ask Haldar about these two at the first opportunity that presented itself. He didn't want to be nosy or to pry into things that weren't his concern, but Hírgaer made him feel ill at ease, as if the older man was cataloguing his every weakness every time he looked at him.

He was, the dark corner of his mind that belonged to that dark part of his heart provided firmly. The One may know why because he didn't, but that was exactly what the fair-haired man was doing.

He didn't seem to be the only one to notice Hírgaer's strange behaviour, even though it would be fair to say that he was the only ranger who noticed it. While Serothlain, Ciryon and Haldar were acting as if Hírgaer was behaving in a completely normal, acceptable way (and, who knew, maybe he even was in their eyes), Celylith was looking after the brothers as well, a dark, thoughtful little crease between his eyes that usually meant that someone had threatened or insulted one of his abominable pets and that he was just working out how to make them pay for it.

He was still trying to decide if he should feel offended or flattered – though he was leaning towards offended – when Haldar turned back to them, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"And what will you be doing today, Estel? And you, my lord?"

"Oh," Celylith waved his hand dismissively, clearly afraid that Ciryon might seize this chance to recruit him for clearing the road, "I am at my lord's disposal. I think he wishes to help replenish the stores."

That was one way of saying it, actually. Legolas had been looking quietly murderous lately, a look that was etching itself more and more deeply into his face by the hour, and was most likely only looking for a way to vent his frustration. Aragorn was too fair a man not to consider the possibility that it might be partly his fault. When Legolas wanted to talk to you, you'd better talk to him or suffer the consequences, namely his bad mood, murderous looks and Thranduilesque sarcasm. But Aragorn, who had grown up amongst beings who considered facing hundreds of orcs before breakfast no special feat at all and dealing with wargs and trolls a nuisance at best, was not very impressed by that. Legolas would have to wait until he wanted to talk as well, now wouldn't he?

"I am going to have a look at the south-western quadrant ," Aragorn answered, doing his best to project innocence and calmness. The twins hadn't quite exploded when he had told them about his plans for the day, but it had been a close thing. Haldar would do nothing of the sort, being far too respectful, but somehow he didn't wish to displease the older man.

"Not alone, surely?" Haldar asked, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit.

Aragorn repressed the urge to roll his eyes.  
"No. I will be accompanied by someone, I am sure."

The older ranger nodded slightly. It was clear that he wasn't going to speak against anything that meant that Aragorn would get to know his surroundings as well as he could. Aragorn wasn't sure if Haldar wanted him to be able to fight alongside them or wanted to ensure that he knew how to flee most effectively should the need arise, and refused to contemplate the question.

"A pity," Ciryon commented offhandedly, playing with the edge of his cloak. "My men could use some help."

"You have all the help you need," Serothlain reminded him. "You have been pestering the commander for two days now, and he has given you all the men you've asked for!"

"Not _all_ the men I asked for," Ciryon said and smiled. "But most of them, that is true. Still, you can never have enough for a task such as this one. Honestly, I will never understand how one would baulk at something as simple as clearing the road! We face the darkness every day, surely that is worse!"

"Fighting orcs is one thing," his friend told him in mock seriousness. "Clearing roads is quite another."

"Maybe we'll be able to find some," Ciryon replied in a similar tone of voice. "That would make everybody a lot happier, I would say."

"Indeed, do so." Serothlain nodded and grinned, clasping his friend's shoulder. "Alas, I can not accompany you! Speaking of which, I really think we should leave, Haldar."

"Yes," Haldar agreed. "Come then, and let us hope that those orcs you spoke about spare his cloak. It's looking ragged enough as it is."

"What is wrong with my cloak?" Ciryon asked, twisting around in an attempt to see the back of said garment.

Haldar and Serothlain, who had given Aragorn and Celylith a polite nod before turning around and walking off, gave no answer, and so it took him several moments to see the large hole in his hood – or rather, the large hole where something had apparently taken a piece of fabric between undoubtedly sharp teeth and torn it right off.

"This?" Ciryon added as he stalked after his friends. "This is nothing! A warg got a little enthusiastic, that's all!"

"There is no hood left, Ciryon."

"Of course there is! I just like them … airier."

"The back of your head can be seen if you put the hood on."

If Ciryon said more to that, he said it so quietly that neither Aragorn nor Celylith could hear it. For a few seconds, the two of them simply looked after them, before Celylith slowly turned to face the young ranger, puzzled thoughtfulness on his face.

"You know, Estel…"

"I know, Celylith, I know," Aragorn said, sighing. "Rangers are strange."

"They are indeed," Celylith agreed. "But somewhat easily … persuaded."

"He's playing with you, my friend," Aragorn said in the tired tone of voice of someone who knew that he would have to separate two very well-armed parties sooner or later. "You won't win that bet. He knows exactly what he's doing."

"Oh, but so do I," Celylith told him, looking entirely unconcerned. A small grin spread over his face that immediately made Aragorn worry about the continued peace between the Wood-elves of Mirkwood and the Dúnedain of the North. "And I am far older and have a lot more practice."

"Wonderful," Aragorn commented sourly. "When the Dúnedain and Mirkwood go to war over this, please remind me to say 'I told you so', because, Manwë be my witness, if there has ever been a situation that requires such a statement, it will be that one."

"Duly noted." Celylith nodded benevolently, as if the thought of starting a war over a bet was a perfectly normal thing that happened all the time in Mirkwood. Aragorn, who – having been raised by Noldor – didn't know everything about the history of King Thranduil's realm, tentatively toyed with the idea that it might not be that far-fetched. There had been that business with Smaug and the dwarves, after all. "So, you will be having a look around again today?"

Aragorn, torn out of his dark musings, shot the elf a suspicious look.  
"Yes. Not alone, of course." Celylith didn't say anything and merely looked at him, and so he added, placing his right hand over his heart, "I swear it."

"Oh, I believe you, Estel," Celylith said and gave him a smile. His eyes seemed to flicker to the right for a moment, but it had been so minute a movement that Aragorn decided that he must have imagined it. "And I am not going to try and force you to take some extra weaponry with you, don't worry."

Aragorn grimaced slightly. The twins, when worried, could be breathtakingly annoying. It was in fact one of the few times when they threw elven restraint, pride and sense of fair play out of the window and resorted to open nagging. Yesterday he had needed to take two spare knives with him before they had allowed him to leave the camp, and that had been a hard-won compromise.

"That is reassuring to hear," he told the wood-elf. Sending a quick look at the sky and the sun that was slowly making her way across it, he added, "Say, didn't you say you were leaving with Legolas?"

"Yes." Celylith nodded his head. His eyes kept looking straight ahead, no flickering at all, but Aragorn knew him far too well. If the wood-elf looked this innocent, he wasn't and was in fact planning something that, where deviousness was concerned, would have put Morgoth to shame. "Yes, I did."

"Then why," Aragorn asked, forcing himself to remain patient, "are you not?"

"Well," Celylith said evenly, "first I was delayed by your ranger friend, and now I cannot. I have orders to follow, you know."

"Now you've lost me, my friend," Aragorn told him with a sigh. "Why would you have to remain here?"

"So that he can distract you and keep you from running away and hiding as soon as you see me coming," a voice behind him commented dryly, and Aragorn didn't have to turn around to know who had spoken. It came as no surprise when Legolas stepped around him a second later and positioned himself next to Celylith. "Well done, _mellon nín_."

Aragorn ignored the elven prince and gave Celylith his best version of the _ look_ that, as he was happy to see, had quite a bit of impact even on the usually so unflappable silver-haired elf.  
"_Gwarth_," he hissed at him.

Celylith had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed.  
"I am only following orders, Estel."

"You are indeed," Legolas said uncompromisingly. "Why don't you go and prepare the horses, Celylith? And be careful with Rashwe; he's a bit … temperamental today."

Celylith almost gulped openly. If Legolas used the term "temperamental" when talking about his beloved steed, it usually meant that anybody else would have used words like "malicious", "impossible to handle" or simply "evil".

"Yes, my lord," he answered glumly. He didn't even try not to sound like a criminal on his way up the scaffold. "If your monster eats me, please tell my father that I love him."

"Of course." Legolas nodded, friendly. "I will see you then, Captain."

Even Aragorn knew that Legolas didn't have a lot of patience left when he addressed his friend by his rank. Celylith knew it very well, too, and was sensible enough to shoot a faintly apologetic look at Aragorn and bow his head at his prince.  
"Yes, my lord."

A moment later he was gone, and Aragorn – always of a more practical disposition – redirected his _look_ at the elven prince.  
"That is low, having him trap me like this."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Estel."

"That is rather melodramatic, isn't it?"

"That depends on your point of view, I would think," Legolas said. "You have been avoiding me since we arrived here, and don't even think about denying it."

Aragorn sighed deeply and sent a quick prayer to the One to grant him patience and self-control. The twins were bad, yes, but Legolas was quite possibly worse.  
"I am not denying it."

"Ah," the elf said, appearing a little surprised that he had actually admitted it. "Why?"

'Because I am not in the mood to explain something I barely understand myself,' Aragorn answered in his head. 'Because if I even think about anything connected to the dark figure in my dreams, I feel completely paralysed with fear and panic. And because trying to explain anything will not help matters with Daervagor.'

"Because I do not want to talk to you about what you undoubtedly wish to discuss," Aragorn finally said instead. "I hardly know what to think about all this myself. I cannot give you the answers you seek."

"I do not want to talk to you about what you … see," Legolas replied, shaking his head. "I know that you are confused and unsure, and if anybody can help you, it is the twins, not me. When you are ready to talk about it, we will talk. My judgment is not as poor as that."

"Then why are we having this conversation?" Aragorn asked. "Is this about me wishing to go alone? I am a ranger, Legolas. If I only spend time with you and the twins, it will be very hard for the others to acknowledge that fact."

He rubbed his forehead, feeling how a headache was slowly beginning to spread from his forehead to his temples where it wrapped itself around his skull and refused to budge. Wonderful, he thought to himself. Just what he needed: Having to spend most of the day on horseback in the sun, and that with a headache that was quickly beginning to turn into a migraine.

"No," Legolas said placidly. "It is not about that, either. I understand that. I might not like it, I might in fact share your brothers' wish to tie you to a tent pole and set a watch on you, but I respect your decision."

"Then what in the name of the Valar are we talking about here?" Aragorn demanded to know. The headache was proving to be quite an unusual one indeed, for its intensity increased dramatically and with a speed he would have thought impossible.

"You and Captain Daervagor," Legolas answered, his voice calm and even. "Something happened between you two, didn't it? Something the twins know about and you won't tell me. I think young Halbarad is involved in some way as well, even though I could not say for the life of me how. The boy is pleasant enough company, after all."

Aragorn gave up and closed his eyes, long fingers unconsciously massaging his aching temples. That was a rather interesting way of putting it, he decided. Not a completely accurate one, of course, but it wasn't too far off, either.

"Can we talk about this later?" he asked, doing his best to suppress the imploring note that wanted to sneak into his voice.

Legolas frowned.  
"Estel…"

"I have to see who will accompany me today, and it is getting late," Aragorn continued, ignoring his friend's words. "The commander mentioned Amlaith, the one who arrived here when we did, but I do not know if he hasn't been assigned to another duty already. He should have a look at his surroundings as well."

Legolas took a deep breath and shook his head. Aragorn took his silence as a sign of acquiescence, for he gave him a small rueful smile and turned around, about to walk back towards the centre of the camp.

"What is it, _mellon nín_?" Legolas' voice halted him in his tracks. "Why can you not trust me? I know that rangers can be … difficult, and I have to admit that I find them hard to understand sometimes, but surely whatever lies between the two of you can be resolved? Daervagor is prideful, stubborn and somewhat quick-tempered, yes, but he isn't unreasonable. Whatever happened between you can surely be solved, if the two of you work on it like sensible beings. You are his lord and will one day be his captain."

Aragorn exhaled and shook his head, but did not turn around.  
"I wish it were so, my friend, I truly do. But things are a little more … complicated than that, I fear."

"What did you do to him, then?" Legolas asked, clearly struggling to make sense of all this. "What have you done that he cannot forgive?"

Aragorn didn't say anything for a few moments, his shoulders set rigidly. In the end, he answered, his voice soft and completely expressionless.

"Daervagor is my mother's cousin. As you by now probably know, Halbarad is his son. That makes Halbarad my second cousin, and, for all intents and purposes, Daervagor my uncle."

He walked off without turning around or saying more, and Legolas needed several long moments until he had shaken off his surprise sufficiently to even close his mouth.  
**  
****  
****  
**  
****

If Amlaith didn't stop looking at him like that, he was going to do something he would regret later.

Well, Aragorn corrected himself, something he would _probably_ regret later. He wasn't having a very good day and wasn't feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

It wasn't that he didn't like Amlaith. Well, to be perfectly honest, he didn't know him enough to like or dislike him. Since the evening he had arrived in the camp and the impromptu war council, he had seen him less than half a dozen times. Ciryon had indeed managed to 'volunteer' him for clearing the road, or he had actually agreed to help or something like that – fact was that he had spent the last two days helping Ciryon and his men. It was quite a dutiful thing to do, even though Aragorn didn't know why anyone would volunteer for hacking away at huge, fallen trees.

Apart from the fact that he had barely seen the other ranger since he'd arrived, Amlaith also wasn't a particularly loquacious person. It was already late afternoon, meaning they had spent more than six hours – far more than six hours, actually – riding alongside each other with brief, quite easily ignorable breaks, and Amlaith hadn't said more than perhaps three dozen words to him. And most of those had barely been pronounced at all and had more or less been grunted. Who knew that one could express something like "Yes, I would like to take a break, thank you for suggesting it!" in three or four grunted syllables!

And, Elbereth be his witness, he had tried to engage him in conversation. He had been raised by people who thought the introduction to a lay or a saga to be too short when it lasted less than two or three hours, so engaging other people in conversation was something that had always come naturally to him. But Amlaith had resisted his best attempts, and after a few hours – Noldor were talkative, but stubborn – he had finally given up and had resigned himself to riding alongside each other in deep silence.

He understood the other man, of course, or at least he thought he did. He had just lost a friend – and, as it seemed, a good friend – and didn't know how. He didn't know what had happened to their fellow ranger, and subsequently didn't know whom to blame. He also didn't know him, Aragorn, and no one else except Ciryon and maybe Commander Cemendur with whom he seemed to spend quite a lot of time.

Aragorn expected that, under similar circumstances, he wouldn't talk to Amlaith either. He would be politer about it, though.

Still, even though Amlaith had made quickly and abundantly clear that he didn't want to have any kind of conversation (if one disregarded the occasional grunt, of course), he was … well, looking at him. Not looking in the meaning of actually and openly staring, but … _ looking_. The other ranger gave him small, quick glances when he thought he wasn't paying attention, and, try as he might, Aragorn couldn't figure out what it was he wanted. Or if he wanted anything in the first place, or if he was just one to keep a close eye on his surroundings.

Aragorn raised his head a little, reminding himself to pay attention to the road they were following, and there it was again: Amlaith's eyes flickered over to the right from where he had intently studying his face. The intensity in the other ranger's eyes was slowly but surely beginning to make him uneasy, much in the same way as the blond ranger … Hírgaer, yes, that was his name … was making him uneasy, and if it hadn't been so breathtakingly impolite, he would have checked if his sword sat lightly in its sheath.

Amlaith was a ranger, he told himself firmly. He wasn't going to harm him. He didn't even know who he was. He couldn't know who he was; he had only just arrived. He…

…was looking at him again. Aragorn felt how his patience gave out. He might have been raised by talkative, generally friendly and patient people, or more precisely elves, but _he_ was no elf. He possessed a very human amount of patience, and enough was enough.

"What is it?" he asked, fighting hard to keep his impatience under control. "If there is a bat sitting on my shoulder and I haven't noticed, don't harm it. It's actually quite nice once you get used to it."

Amlaith gave him a long, blank stare that clearly stated that there were no bats sitting on anyone's shoulder and that he also thought that they did not have the right to do so.  
"Actually … no."

Two words in a row. They were making progress.

"That is reassuring to hear," Aragorn said lightly. "Then allow me to ask you a question, Amlaith. Why are you staring at me like that?"

Amlaith didn't seem overly put out by his directness. He only nodded slightly, as if in confirmation of a question that only he knew, his eyes fixed openly on Aragorn's face.  
"I do not know you," he finally said. "Under these circumstances that means that I do not trust you."

Aragorn couldn't help but blink.  
"I hate to be the one to tell you this, Amlaith, but the world is full of people you do not know."

"I know." Amlaith nodded again. "It is something I worry about all the time."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the other man. He might be mistaken, he most likely _was_ mistaken, but had that just been a smile?

"I see what you mean," he told him. He really did, too, and that should have worried him. "But you also do not really know anyone else in the camp, if I'm not very much mistaken."

"Oh, I do know a few." Amlaith shook his head lightly. "Serothlain, for example, and also Ciryon and the commander. I met them a few summers ago."

"I stand corrected, then," Aragorn admitted, his voice even and calm. "But you do not stare at anybody else in this camp in the way you have been staring at me."

Amlaith looked at him for a few moments but did not say anything. There was something in his eyes that Aragorn could not decipher, something that almost looked threatening, before it disappeared behind what might as well have been a solid brick wall. Now there was nothing but calmness in the grey eyes, and Aragorn found his unease increasing. The heartsick young ranger who had almost collapsed in Daervagor's tent had disappeared, it seemed, to be replaced by this dangerously silent man who looked at him in this particular way that he couldn't identify. It was almost as if he had come to a decision or a realisation of some sort, but Aragorn couldn't really figure out what it might have been.

"As I said, Estel … or should it be Strider? Is Estel actually your real name?"

"It is," Aragorn said nonchalantly, but he watched the other ranger with the eyes of a hawk. The other's disinterest was faked, he was very sure about it. He was fishing for information, and he would be damned if he volunteered any. He didn't even like him, and then there were all these matters involving gloom and doom. "But you may call me Strider as well."

"I see," Amlaith said, briefly averting his eyes as they steered their horses around a thicket that had grown onto the narrow path that was barely broad enough for two horses to walk abreast. "So Estel is the name the Elves gave you?"

"It is the name that my father gave me," Aragorn replied curtly. It wasn't a lie, after all; he only wasn't specifying which father he meant. "What is the meaning of these questions, Amlaith?" he went on, deciding that offence was the best defence. "Of what importance could this possibly be to what is going on?"

"Oh, you are right." Amlaith shrugged. "It is most likely of no importance. But as I said earlier, I do not know you. And I find it strange that you appear here out of thin air at a time like this."

Aragorn actually saw the red haze of fury lie itself over his vision and had to fight hard not to lose his composure.  
"I am a ranger like you, Amlaith," he said in a tone of voice that was somewhere between deadly calm and icy. "And you will find that Haldar and the captain himself will vouch for me."

Amlaith smiled at that, and Aragorn thought that, if they weren't having this conversation, he might actually find that smile friendly and engaging.  
"Ah, but I do not know them either, do I? It wouldn't be very wise to trust someone I don't know to make judgements about somebody else I also don't know."

That actually made sense, Aragorn had to admit that. In a weird, slightly paranoid kind of way, but still.

"Come now, Amlaith," he told the other ranger, an answering smile on his face that didn't look one bit more inviting and unfeigned. "You have something to say to me, it appears, so say it! You think that I … we … have something to do with this? It is a notion that would be ridiculous if it weren't so preposterous."

"You must admit that it is a curious coincidence."

"I must admit no such thing!" Aragorn said sharply. "If you are accusing me or any of my companions of anything, be courageous enough to say it to my face."

"I am not accusing you of anything," Amlaith said, a slightly placatory tone in his voice. "You or the elves, for that matter. No one would think the sons of Elrond to be in league with any kind of darkness, that much is certain."

"Oh, but of course you are not," Aragorn said, irony thick in his voice. "You are merely implying that _I_ might be."

Amlaith had the good grace not to protest or say anything. It was a show of tactfulness that was a little late to appease Aragorn at all. Wondering how the situation had deteriorated so quickly, Aragorn wiped a strand of long, slightly damp hair out of his face to gain time, trying hard to figure out what to do or say. It was not even the sixth hour yet, or at least that was what he estimated by the sun's position, and if they didn't reach some sort of agreement, he might very well end up killing the other ranger.

And Daervagor would surely _stare_ at him if he did, even if Amlaith wasn't one of his men. Besides, it would most likely also displease Haldar and the twins – about Legolas and Celylith he wasn't really sure. They didn't seem to like a lot of the rangers, with the possible exception of Lhanton and maybe Ciryon. A cold shiver ran down his back as he realised something far more important: It would displease his father, too.

Aragorn would almost have shaken himself. No, they really couldn't allow it to come that far. And, in Amlaith's defence: He _had_ asked him what the matter was, hadn't he?

"Very well, Amlaith," he finally began calmly. If Legolas could be the Voice of Reason, he surely could be, too. "You do not trust me. You do not like me. All right. I can live with that. What I cannot – and will not – live with, however, is being treated like this. So we can either come to some sort of agreement – a truce if you like – or we can take this to Captain Daervagor and discuss it with him." He grinned slightly; a rather unpleasant sight. "I am aware of the fact that you do not know him as well as I do, but, please, trust me when I tell that that wouldn't be an experience that either of us would enjoy."

Amlaith looked at him without saying a word, and Aragorn once again realised that the other ranger was not much older than he was and that he had just lost his – from the looks of it – best friend.

"I understand how you feel, Amlaith," he said quietly. "You lost a friend, and you do not know whom to blame. But I…"

"You do not know how I feel," Amlaith interrupted him. He looked as calm as he might have while discussing the weather, but there was something dark and terrible in his eyes that would have given any sensible mortal – and even most immortals Aragorn knew – reason to pause. "You know nothing about me, or about Baran."

"That is true," Aragorn said, unperturbed. "That is why I said that I only _ understand _how you feel. I, too, have lost people I considered friends. I am not your enemy, Amlaith. I do not know why you would think that I am."

The other ranger closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again some of the hostility had left his gaze.

"I do not think you are my enemy, Strider," he said. Aragorn almost raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He might not think him to be an enemy, perhaps, but he surely didn't think of him as a friend or even an ally. "But I will not apologise for my words."

Legolas was right, Aragorn decided in a split second. Rangers _were_ stubborn.

"And I will not apologise for mine," he retorted. "But there is a darkness out there that is preying on our people, Amlaith, and we all need to work together. Unless you think me connected to it, I suggest that we do just that."

Amlaith didn't reply immediately, and Aragorn was just resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn't receive an answer at all when the other ranger suddenly pulled his horse to a stop. Aragorn, now truly irritated, was about to congratulate him on this wonderful method of avoiding a conversation when he saw what had caused the other's sudden action: The barest hint of a mark on the ground, half-hidden by the thick bushes that that grew on both sides of the road. They had left the more wooded areas behind about an hour ago, and so the terrain was relatively open here. It actually made for a nice change; this way, it was less likely that something was lying in wait for them or trying to sneak up on them.

Aragorn cocked his head slightly to the side as he leaned forward over the side of the horse, his left hand on the saddle horn to keep his balance. The still injured limb sustained his weight but almost immediately started hurting again, but he ignored it as he stared at the ground. It almost looked as if something had been … dragged, from the left side of the road to over here. There were no more tracks on the dusty road – if there had been any they had long ago been erased by wind and sun – but over here the ground was wetter because of the shadow that the thickets cast, and so the impression had been preserved in the moist ground.

It was hard to see, though, and Aragorn felt how a bit of grudging respect mixed with the annoyance swirling inside of him. No matter how vexing Amlaith was, he obviously had sharp eyes.

The object of his deliberations was already jumping off his horse, thrusting his long leather reins into his hands without even looking at him or apparently even being aware of it. Before Aragorn knew what was going on, he was holding the horse's reins and Amlaith was squatting down next to the mark, hands skimming over its surface in the same way that a sculptor might feel for imperfections in the surface of one of his statues. Not really knowing if he should be fuming or amused, Aragorn dismounted as well, after having cast another searching look at their surroundings. Just because it didn't look as if there was anything or anyone hiding nearby didn't actually mean that there really wasn't, he thought, and made sure that his blade could easily be drawn from its sheath.

One could take politeness too far, after all.

Amlaith didn't even seem to notice. Aragorn glanced at Ráca and the other ranger's horse, decided that they weren't about to run away and knelt down next to the other man, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the mark.

There was not much to see, in all honesty, except for a perfectly normal drag mark that was slightly deeper on the side facing the road than on the other. It might have been four or five days old or maybe even seven or more, but there was really no way to be sure. It looked as if whatever had been dragged had been heavy, at least judging by the depth of the impression, but there were no distinctive marks or signs. Aragorn sighed softly. "Whatever had been dragged", indeed. He somehow doubted that it would turn out to be something harmless like a lumberjack dragging a log, or maybe even a troll dragging its club after it.

A troll would be nice, actually. The sun was still shining brightly, and any troll that set a toe over the threshold of its hiding place would instantly turn to stone, and they wouldn't have to bother. Maybe he was becoming lazy and complacent, but the idea of not having to fight for his life actually held some appeal.

He was still pondering this when Amlaith straightened up as abruptly as he had jumped off his horse and turned to the right, clearly preparing to follow the trail. Before he could move further, Aragorn had jumped up as well, and with a swiftness that did his training justice his hand shot out and wrapped itself around the other ranger's forearm.

"We follow this trail together, or not at all," he said uncompromisingly. "And don't even think about arguing about who has seniority over whom. I will not let you go in there," he jerked his head into the direction of the bushes, "alone. It would be nothing but folly."

Amlaith wasn't prepared to give up so easily, something that Aragorn would have approved of in any other kind of situation.  
"One of us should stay with the horses. We can't take them with us."

Aragorn pointedly looked from the thickets to the horses, the expression on his face clearly conveying that it was unnecessary to say something so painfully obvious.  
"They are intelligent creatures. They will only move from this spot if there is danger afoot."

The other ranger opened his mouth to say something, but Aragorn would never know if it had been his intention to protest further or give in gracefully, because he turned around and began to push his way through the bushes. He was not in the mood to waste any more time arguing than they already had, and if Amlaith kept behaving so stubbornly uncooperative, they would end up staying here far longer than he wanted. He planned to be back at camp in a few hours, before darkness fell, and he wouldn't allow Amlaith to ruin his plans, no matter what his motives might be.

A displeased intake of breath was all he heard from his companion before the other ranger joined him, and soon Aragorn was too busy pushing aside thorny branches and avoiding stepping on the faint signs of the trail to pay him much attention. There was nothing to be said, and he needed more time than was currently at his disposal to decide what would be the best strategy when dealing with him. He might even need his brothers' help, he thought reluctantly. They were well-versed in politics of any kind, and they could be downright devious.

If he hadn't been so intent on listening for any sounds that might indicate that there was someone nearing their position (or already waiting for them), he would have noticed the flies, and they would have told him everything he needed to know. This way, he was surprised when he pushed aside another few branches and found himself from one moment to the next in the smallest clearing he had ever seen. From the looks of it a tree had died and rotted away, leaving only a small free space.

Only it wasn't free now, nor was it empty. The stench that filled the miniature clearing was so strong that it felt almost like a physical blow, and Aragorn didn't even notice that he stumbled a step back, right into Amlaith who had caught up with him. Even if he had wanted to say something, he couldn't have; the smell that was by no means unfamiliar to him was so strong that all his concentration was immediately needed for the very simple task of not gagging.

"Strider?" Amlaith's voice finally reached his ears, the annoyance in his voice indicating that he had addressed him several times already. "What is it?"

The desire to bend over and lose all he had eaten in the last days hadn't diminished, and so Aragorn merely pressed the palm of his hand over his mouth, in vain hoping that his fingers might filter out some of the stench. The shock slowly wore off now, and over the buzzing of the flies and his loudly beating heart he could again hear Amlaith, whose voice sounded still annoyed but now also … afraid?

"Strider? Let me see."

Aragorn felt hands grasp him and try to push him to the side, but he was as motionless as a carved stone statue and felt twice as cold. The bushes left and right of them were thick, though, and so Amlaith soon gave up with an annoyed grunt. His superior height prevented the older man from looking over his shoulder, and Aragorn found himself sending a fervent prayer of thanks to any Vala who might be interested for being taller than almost any other human he had ever met.

"I…" he began, taking a deep breath and instantly regretting it, "I really don't think you should see this, Amlaith."

Some of the horror that was clearly visible on his face must have been in detectable his voice, no matter how much he tried to hide it. Amlaith, who was no fool, possessed a working nose and could read between the lines as well as any ranger, simply shouldered aside. He somehow managed to squeeze past the younger man, only to stop as if he had been hit between the eyes with a sledgehammer. For long seconds, neither of them spoke, and Aragorn forced himself to look at what Amlaith was staring at as if it looking away would mean death or doom.

It had been a human once, most likely a man, that much was clear. It was only clear, however, because the … body … was too large to be a hobbit, dwarf or orc, and too small to be an elf. It might have been a she-elf, but Aragorn wasn't prepared or willing to even consider that possibility. If the flies and the other insects were anything to go by, it had been here for some time, even though Aragorn knew how quickly they could arrive, especially in dry and hot weather. Even despite the layer of insects that seemed to cover … well, everything, he very much doubted that this … man had had an accident after which he had dragged himself in here to die. He had been killed, in a very determined and cruel manner.

Next to him, Amlaith gave a strangled sound and stumbled back, his eyes wide and unbelieving. Aragorn felt how the last bit of desperate hope he had been harbouring withered and died, and for a second he closed his eyes against the terrible sight in front of them.

"Valar…"

Amlaith backed away even more, only to lose his footing a second later. Aragorn was fast enough to catch him, but not quite fast enough to regain his balance before he reached for the other man, and so the two of them went down together, mere feet separating them from the flies and bugs that swarmed over their grisly feast.

"Shh," Aragorn said automatically, knowing full well that there was nothing he could say that would even reach the other ranger. "Be calm. It…"

Another sound, this one even darker and more desperate, wrenched itself from Amlaith's throat as he closed his eyes, his face so pale that the dark lashes contrasted sharply against the almost translucent skin.

"Oh great Manwë, please, no!"

Aragorn, feeling more helpless than he had felt in a long time, tightened his grip on the other's arm. Amlaith was beginning to sway slightly, and looked as if a hobbit child armed with a feather might have knocked him to the ground.

"Is it…?" he began hesitantly.

"It's Baran. Elbereth, but it is him!"

Amlaith's voice was so pain-filled and choked as he confirmed his suspicion that Aragorn could hardly bear hearing it. He had to get him away from here, Aragorn decided instantly. Neither of them was a stranger to death and battle – and mangled and decomposing bodies were part of that –, but seeing some stranger like this and seeing your best friend were two very different things.

"Come, Amlaith," he said softly as he tried to get the other ranger to his feet. There was a headache beginning to build up behind his temples once more, but he resolutely ignored it. "We have to return to the horses."

"I cannot leave him!" Amlaith's head snapped up, shocked indignation on his face.

"He is beyond help now, Amlaith," Aragorn told him gently, tugging at the other's arm and finally managing to pull him to his feet. The sudden movement served to increase the swiftly growing headache, and he had to close his eyes in order not to be overcome by nausea after all. "We will return for him, I promise."

The other ranger's eyes flickered to his friend's body before they quickly returned to him, and Aragorn could almost see how shock and grief overwhelmed whatever control he had still left.  
"But…"

"Come," Aragorn simply repeated gently, pulling him into the direction of the narrow path that had led them here and that was almost invisible now. "We need to leave."

Amlaith allowed himself to be led, and Aragorn half-tugged and half-pushed him through the thickets. The headache became, paradoxically enough, stronger and stronger the more distance they put between themselves and the terrible find they had made. It was clear that the other ranger was too shocked to resist, and Aragorn found the vacant look in his eyes quite hard to bear.

"Did you see … Manwë Súlimo, his eye…"

"I know," was all Aragorn could say. "I saw."

He had only been able to see one side of the dead man's face – but, the Valar be his witnesses, that had been enough to ensure that he would see the images that had burned themselves into the insides of his eyelids for a year of two in his nightmares. There simply hadn't been an eye left.

They had almost reached the horses, the stench and the buzzing of the flies and other insects fading away behind them, and Amlaith seemed to regain his composure. Aragorn was glad about it; the horror on the other's face had been too painful to look at and he couldn't help but wonder how he would react if he found Legolas or any other of his friends in such a condition, or – Eru forbid – the twins or Elrond.

Amlaith almost brusquely shook off his arm – something for which Aragorn immediately forgave him when he saw the still completely shocked look on his face – and quickened his step, clearly intending to reach the road as quickly as possible. As the other ranger reached out to bend the last few branches that separated him from his goal out of his way, a stray beam of sunlight found the silver brooch at his throat.

The sudden, brilliant light seemed to burn into Aragorn's brain, and he brought his hand to his forehead with a half-pained, half-startled groan. He took another step forward, suddenly desperate to get out of this makeshift tunnel and away from what he knew lay behind him, but the ghosts of the gleaming reflection of sunlight off polished silver reappeared before his eyes, the glare growing stronger and stronger until it blinded him completely. From one second to the next, his vision whitened out, rendering him completely unable to see, and the sudden, explosive pain in his head sent him to his knees.

He was only marginally aware of first Amlaith's questioning voice and then his shout of alarm, daggers of pain burning themselves into his brain and blinding him to anything but the agony in his head. With another stab of bright pain that seemed to sear the edges of his consciousness like a white-hot flame, he was suddenly spinning downwards, as if the ground had opened up under him and swallowed him whole and then there was…

**  
** **  
**

_Darkness._

If he hadn't been so surprised and so busy trying to convince his head that spontaneous explosion was not a desirable goal, he would have been angry. This wasn't supposed to happen, he thought almost desperately. He wasn't asleep! He wasn't dreaming! This **couldn't** happen! He had been getting used to the nightmares, truly, he had, and he wasn't prepared for something like this!

Fear followed the almost comical indignation like thunder follows lightning, and if the pain in his head had allowed it – and if he'd honestly thought that he would actually **see** something – he would have tried to make out his surroundings. He didn't know what he was afraid of or even if it was really ** his** fear; he simply was, and was in far too much pain and too shocked to actually question it. Dark, suffocation terror washed over him, and after long, long seconds he raised his eyes, fully expecting to see the dark figure from his nightmares.

There was no one there.

He couldn't move a muscle, otherwise he would have tried to turn around, the building pressure in his head notwithstanding. The darkness around him seemed to move slightly, like fog that reluctantly drifts off when even the fainted wind starts to blow. Before his addled brain could make sense of that, another stab of pain went through his skull, making him moan and wish for nothing more than to be able to clutch at his head.

When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at the hideously deformed face of an orc.

If he could have moved, he would have scrambled backwards on all fours, dignity be damned. He couldn't, though, and so he could only stare as the orc notched an arrow to his bow and let it fly, an expression of twisted enjoyment on its scarred face. There were no sounds of any kind, almost as if he was separated from what was happening by an invisible wall, and he decided with sick, painful hopelessness that this, at least, he knew.

The scene changed so suddenly that it left him reeling, only to be replaced by the image of roaring flames that reached for him with reddish, hungry tongues. By their light he could see dark shapes that detached themselves from the oppressing darkness, moving swiftly and threateningly until they seemed to be surrounding him in a tight circle, and the pure, single-minded menace that they exuded sent a shiver of unadulterated terror down his spine.

The agony in his head made it hard to think, and so it took him some moments to realise that they were gone, having faded back into the black nothingness as soundlessly as they had appeared, and in their stead there stood a tall figure. Fear shot through him before he could contain it, and his heart that was already pounding in his chest began to beat even faster until he realised that it was not the … being … from his nightmares. There was no hood over the head, for one, but all he could see of it was a glimpse of dark hair.

His back – if it was indeed a man – was turned to him and he was standing completely still. Then, however, he began to turn around, but before he had moved more than a few inches a dark, evil-looking knife handle burrowed itself in the person's side, causing him to reel back in sudden shock. While the other was sinking to his knees, he could see the torn hood that flapped in a non-existent breeze, as if to mock him with his inability to move. The other collapsed, one of his hands reaching for and touching the knife handle as if he couldn't believe what was happening to him.

There was no way to make out the person's features as his head was turned away from him and long hair had fallen over his face. He didn't look anyway. All he could see was the blood that spread around the other's still body, an obscene amount of blood that kept on flowing until it covered everything in front of him.

Last of all it seemed to reach the bright, star-shaped brooch securing the cloak at the fallen one's throat. Thick red blood began to flow over it, dulling its gleam and submerging it in darkness and seemingly extinguishing the last bit of light in this black nothingness.

He could only watch as it spread and spread until it almost touched him, and he had never been happier in his life as he was suddenly gripped and jerked upwards.

**  
** **  
**

His eyes snapped open so quickly that it made him dizzy, and he closed them again to regain some measure of self-control. When he reluctantly made a second attempt, it took his rather uncooperative eyes some time to focus on anything, but in the end they did – namely on Amlaith's face and the expression that could be seen on it.

It was, Aragorn decided absentmindedly and with the same slowness that usually accompanied being rudely awoken from a deep sleep, somewhere between terrified, annoyed and confused.

"Valar, Estel," the older ranger said, one of his hands hovering an inch or two over Aragorn's chest. "Are you all right?"

That was a very good question, Aragorn decided, and one that would require a good deal of contemplation. In the end he settled for a half-truth.  
"I … think so?"

Amlaith's mouth twitched slightly, and Aragorn belatedly realised that the other man was trying to suppress a small smile.  
"I wish I could share your optimism. You are lying in the middle of the road after you collapsed without apparent reason!"

Ah, that was why the bushes looked so tall, Aragorn reasoned. He was still contemplating this fascinating question when he was interrupted by the other ranger, who leant over him, peered intently into his eyes and held up two fingers.

"Can you see those clearly? You started … thrashing … and I don't think I was fast enough to stop you from hitting your head."

Aragorn opened his mouth to say that he did see the two fingers, thank you very much, but his by now rather battered memory chose this moment to resurface. With a gasp that made Amlaith's brows knit together in renewed worry he shot upwards, only to find that making sudden moves was not a very good idea at the moment. Panic and fear were only marginally slower than pain and they nearly overwhelmed him as his mind desperately tried to make sense of what had happened, but with more will-power than he knew he possessed he pushed them to the side. He could figure out what had happened later, when the twins were there and could counsel him. There was no time for that now – and besides, he would probably only end up confusing himself even more.

Cradling his aching skull in his hands, he managed to look up at the other ranger, squinting against the suddenly unbearably bright sunlight.

"You know this area better than I do. How far is it to the road leading to the northwest, towards the South Downs?"

There was pain in Aragorn's voice, but also enough determination to make Amlaith swallow the comment that was clearly on the tip on his tongue. The older ranger was silent for a second as he calculated the distance.

"I am not entirely certain," he finally admitted. "Two or three hours at least, I would think, if one were to cut across country. Taking the roads would be easier, though, but would take longer."

"Too long," Aragorn said, his voice flat, and placed one of his hands on the ground to push himself up, the other still pressed against his temple. "Help me up, please. We have to hurry."

Amlaith found himself obeying, and he had already half-hoisted the younger man to his feet when he realised what he was doing.  
"What do you mean, 'we have to hurry'? Where do we have to be so urgently?"

Being upright did not agree with his aching head, but Aragorn swallowed against the nausea that rose inside of him and closed his eyes until the ground stayed put.  
"We need to reach that road, Amlaith, or people will die, _our _people. Do you know the way?"

"I might not know every nook and cranny of this part of the Angle, but yes, I should be able to find my way. Why?"

"Because I could not guide us," Aragorn said simply. "I have never been south of the camp before. I would find the way, yes, but it would take extra time, time we do not have."

Amlaith waited politely until he had grasped his saddle horn to keep himself upright before he replied to that.  
"Even if I understood what you are talking about – and I do not –, I would not consent to leaving … him. We have to take him back with us."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed, doing his best to keep his impatience at bay. "Yes, you are right, and so we will. But we cannot do it now. We have to hurry, or it will be too late."

Amlaith looked very much as if he wanted to become angry and only lacked the strength or energy to actually do it. There was something on Aragorn's face – maybe his steely determination – that made him pause before he spoke, and so he simply narrowed his eyes at the younger ranger.

"I hate to repeat myself so ceaselessly, but why? Why do we have to hurry? As you said before, I do not trust you. Give me only one good reason why I should leave my best friend behind in order to satisfy some strange … whim of yours!"

"It is not a whim!" Aragorn ground out between gritted teeth. "Please, Amlaith, you have to trust me. Ciryon and his men are in mortal danger."

"Are they?" There was faint mockery in his voice that Aragorn either missed or – more likely – valiantly ignored. "How do you know that? If what you say is true, we should return to the camp to get reinforcements before doing anything else."

Under normal circumstances, Aragorn would have agreed with that. Circumstances, however, had moved so far beyond what one would consider 'normal' that he had distinctive problems even thinking about the two words in the same context.

"The camp lies too far east," he said, holding onto the last shreds of his patience with iron control. His very soul told him insistently to get on a horse and not stop until he had reached Ciryon and his men. "We cannot return there and hope to arrive on time."

"Time for wh…"

"They are going to die," Aragorn said bluntly. "Ciryon is going to die. Every last one of them is going to die, unless we do something. Do not ask me how I know this; I could not give you any kind of answer that would satisfy you. I simply _know_. Please, Amlaith," he went on, resorting to open pleading now. "Please, trust me, and be it only this once and only to prove to me that I am wrong. We need to leave, now."

Amlaith cast a quick look over his shoulder, into the direction where they had left his friend's body. When he turned back around, there was reluctant acceptance on his face that made Aragorn sag against his horse's flank in relief. He strongly doubted that he would be able to do this on his own; his head still hurt so much that he considered examining every inch of his scalp just in case someone had stuck something sharp into it and he had somehow managed not to notice.

"Very well," Amlaith said, his voice tight with displeasure and disapproval. "But after this – whatever 'this' is! – we will return for … Baran … and as soon as we are back at camp, I want an explanation. And I will not care at all if the captain or Haldar or the elf lords or even Manwë himself vouch for you!"

Aragorn was far too relieved to argue, and far too busy heaving himself onto his horse's back without immediately falling back down again. In less time than he had thought possible, they had both mounted and were on their way. Amlaith looked for – and quickly found – a very narrow, almost invisible path branching off right, leading roughly north.

Aragorn followed the other ranger, his eyes on his rigid back that so clearly radiated confusion, anger and grief. He winced from time to time when a particularly annoying ray of light blinded him and aggravated his only slowly abating headache.

But all he could really see was that orc's hideous face, and the way the torn hood had flapped forlornly in the wind over a growing pool of dark, glistening blood.  
**  
****  
****  
**  
****

Stepping back, Ciryon muttered a Dwarvish epithet whose knowledge he would have fiercely denied if asked about it by his mother or – Valar forbid – his grandmother, and stared darkly at the last piece of the tree they had, over the course of the day, dragged off the road.

It had been a particularly stubborn tree. The others had been easy – if that word was used in the widest sense – to move off the road, at least with the proper application of leverage and occasionally also brute strength, but this was another thing entirely. It should have been reasonably easy. When it became clear that they wouldn't be able to move this largest tree unless all of them suddenly grew a lot stronger or the captain granted them considerably more men, they had done the next best thing: Sawed it into pieces and moved _them_. 

It had been sweaty, exhausting work, but it had been successful – if one disregarded this last piece. It consisted of the lowest part of the trunk and the roots – and it completely refused to move. Ciryon, who was no scholar but more than able to solve simple physical problems, knew that it should in fact work. The levers were in the right place, the roots couldn't have got tangled up with the underlying, now flattened trees that much, and the bloody tree couldn't be that heavy.

Apparently, no one had seen it necessary to inform the tree about those facts.

It was … vexing. It was annoying, it was insupportable, it was not rightly possible. The tree was doing it _on purpose_.

Well, maybe not really on purpose, Ciryon admitted testily. If the tree had been a man, though, it would have been laughing at them, he was completely sure about that. The thrice-cursed heat didn't help either, of course.

"Well," a voice said next to him, tearing him out of his thoughts, "that didn't go exactly as planned, now did it?"

Praying to the Valar for patience, Ciryon slowly turned around. As he had suspected, it was Araphor, one of Serothlain's men who had replaced Amlaith. He was not the most optimistic of persons, to put it mildly, and he had been preaching the impending failure of this particular enterprise for the past two hours, even since most of their merry little band had had to leave to relieve the guards further up the road.

The most annoying thing about the other man's constantly voiced pessimism was that it was slowly turning out that he was right.

"Really? What makes you say that?" he asked, so much sarcasm in his voice that it stopped even Araphor – who wasn't overly perceptive to such things on top of everything else – in his tracks. Ciryon wasn't even troop leader yet, but he could already stare at you in a way that made you wish to be somewhere else – anywhere else, in fact.

Araphor opened his mouth to reply, but Ciryon raised a hand and shook his head.  
"No, don't answer that, please. I really don't want to hear it."

Araphor shrugged and returned his attention to the makeshift lever he had been examining. Ciryon rubbed a grimy hand over his equally grimy forehead and then brushed back strands of sweaty dark hair that had been stuck to his brow for the past half-hour. Giving the sun that was now quickly sinking below the horizon a brief look, he sighed. They really would have to leave soon; in less than a quarter-hour the sun would have set and they would have to return to camp. They should have left earlier, really, in order to be back home or at least close to it by the time night fell, but he just hated leaving things unfinished.

And besides, they would have to return tomorrow morning to finish the job, and that really wasn't something he was looking forward to. The captain would not be pleased about it – he had already made a pointed comment about how long it was taking them to remove a few "fallen branches", as he called it – and neither would he. Even simple guard duty was beginning to look interesting after this.

"All right," he said, staring at the tree trunk with a mixture of loathing and incredulity. "You are right, Araphor. This isn't going to work."

If the other ranger was in any way happy about that admission, he did not show it. Araphor might be a pessimist – as quite a few people he knew were, but they didn't advertise it that much – but he wasn't stupid. Ciryon might technically hold the same rank as he did – namely none at all –, but it was only a matter of time before he would be made troop leader, and both of them knew it.

"I think we might have to return tomorrow," he went on, distaste in his voice. "We could try to place the levers at different positions, but, really, I think we've tried most of them by now. We need two more men."

"We could get Ferneth to…"

Araphor hadn't even finished his sentence when Ciryon already shook his head.  
"And leave us without someone on the lookout? I don't know about you, Araphor, but if I am attacked, I would at least like to have some sort of warning."

To that, the other ranger didn't reply anything, even though he looked as unhappy as Ciryon felt about having to spend another day moving these thrice-cursed trees. The third member of their little troop – or rather, the only one that hadn't had to leave in order to relieve some oh-so-lucky guards – was up in the tallest tree they had been able to find on the little rise that overlooked most of the area. Ciryon had spent long evenings talking to Haldar and the commander, and he was very aware of the danger they were all in. He would most likely die before he even reached eighty, he was quite aware of that, for the Rangers led dangerous lives, but he would be damned if he made it easier for the spawns of Mordor.

"Come," he said, turning back to the tree, "let us gather the tools. We can't finish this today, and we really should have left half an hour ago. I do not enjoy being caught in the twilight in the middle of the road, but it's a lot better than being caught by falling darkness."

"Very well," Araphor agreed and nodded his head. "I cannot say I am unhappy about leaving. I hear one of the elves has agreed to help with the cooking tonight."

Ciryon immediately cheered up. In Rivendell, it was the males that cooked the meals with great enjoyment and skill. They used herbs and spices that were hard to come by, especially in a Dúnedain camp, and the mere idea of a well-cooked meal was enough to make him feel hungry. Nothing against Halbarad and that other lad who were on kitchen duty at the moment, but they were far more skilled with their swords than with pots or pans.

"Which one of them?" he asked as he gathered the small axes and one of the larger saws that had been placed on a large rock nearby. "Not the … the silver-haired one?"

Araphor looked at him strangely, which he ignored. He didn't have anything against Lord Celylith, he really did not, he told himself almost defensively. He was just stranger than the rest of them, and … well, he didn't consider someone capable of creating tasty meals who considered bats acceptable pets.

"I do not think so, no." Araphor shook his head as he placed the second bag full of equipment next to the first. "I think Ereneth said it was one of Lord Elrond's sons. The younger one? I am not completely sure."

"Typical," Ciryon commented good-humouredly. "Ereneth is always thinking with his stomach."

"Well, you know what they say," Araphor said, shrugging. "Who knows what they are used to from home...?"

"Don't start with that kind of talk. They are Dúnedain like you and me," Ciryon warned him, stopping what he was doing and looking intently at the other ranger. "And, for Eru's sake, don't let Hírgaer hear you talk like this about his brother or other member of his family! He will take it seriously and personally, that I guarantee you, as he very well should."

It was something he was saying quite often, and so it didn't surprise him that his words had the same effect they usually did, namely little. Araphor shrugged and turned away, looking only mildly apologetic, but before either of them could say anything, another voice interrupted the quiet around them. It sounded slightly stressed, which, for a ranger, was somewhere close to open worry.

"Ciryon? There is movement to the south; two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty yards from your position."

Ciryon and Araphor exchanged a quick look, the earlier mild antagonism instantly forgotten. Neither of them had to say anything as Araphor dropped the bag he was holding, quickly drew his sword half out of its sheath to ensure that it could be unsheathed easily, and then without a word began to hurry over to the horses that were grazing a few dozen yards to the left, hidden from sight by a copse of young trees.

This was so typical, Ciryon ranted as he dropped his cloak he had just picked up and jogged over to the tall oak in which the youngest member of his little troop was sitting. It was always him who got into this kind of trouble. Never Serothlain – things like that simply didn't occur in his presence. It was quite simply not fair. Stopping when he reached the tree, he looked up and immediately spotted their lookout, a young recruit who had by far the best eyes out of the three of them. He was peering down at him, open worry on his face.

"Where?" he asked simply.

"Over by the little brook, sir," the younger man said. "I … I don't know why I didn't spot it before. They are rather stealthy, whoever they are."

"How many are there?" Ciryon asked. He didn't even ask if they were friend or foe; he might not be a pessimist like Araphor, but he definitely wasn't inclined to starry-eyed optimism either.

"I … I can't say, sir. It looks like maybe … ten? I can't rightly see them; I can only see movement in the undergrowth. It's … Valar! There is another group up north! It looks a little smaller, but not much!"

Ciryon thought quickly. He might not have been the best pupil ever to have graced his village school, but he most certainly knew a thing or two about strategy. They were being surrounded by someone – and he would bet all the money that Lhanton hadn't won off him yet that they weren't doing it in order to be able to invite them to a friendly cup of tea. Besides all that, it was a very simple question of numbers: Three against at least fifteen, if not more.

"Get down here," he ordered curtly. "I feel no inclination to find out who it is that apparently wants us dead. Araphor!" he called, waiting impatiently for the younger ranger to climb down the tree. "Araphor! We need to leave, now!"

There was no answer. Ciryon frowned, but waited until the other ranger had dropped out of the tree and onto the grass. Araphor and he didn't get along very well, that was common knowledge that the two of them were quite aware of as well, but neither of them was stupid or undisciplined enough to let a thing like personal feelings get between them, especially in a situation like this one. They were rangers and knew their duty well.

"Sir?" Ferneth asked next to him, calloused fingers gripping his sword hilt tightly. "What are we going to do?"

That, Ciryon admitted, was a good and valid question. With a jerk of his head he motioned the other ranger to follow him and stepped away from the tree trunk, and as they stepped out of the gloom that the tree's thick foliage created, he noticed to his dismay that the sun had almost sunken below the horizon and that darkness was fast approaching.

Araphor was nowhere to be seen, nor were the horses, that was something that he saw quickly enough. Araphor would have answered had he been able to, he thought darkly. He might be opinionated, but he was a good warrior. The unease in his heart magnified tenfold, and he unhurriedly took the bow from the quiver strapped to his back and began to string it with quick, practiced movements. He had been a ranger long enough to know when he was in serious trouble, and now all his senses told him that "serious" wasn't even the right word anymore and that he should seriously consider looking for another and more appropriate one. 

He had lived this long by listening to his instincts, after all, and as soon as he was done with his bow he pulled his younger companion with him, back into the shadow and relative security that the large tree offered.

"Ciryon?" Ferneth asked again, but without hesitation started stringing his own bow. He might not be a fully-fledged ranger yet, but he wasn't that inexperienced either. "What is going on? Shouldn't we try to get to the horses?"

"Aye, one would think so, wouldn't one?" Ciryon asked, friendly, feeling how a peculiar, familiar sort of calm descended on him. He hooked his bow over his shoulder and pulled a handful of arrows from his quiver and stuck them into the soft ground one by one. "Araphor would have answered if he could have. That, of course, means that he's captured, unconscious or dead."

To his credit, the young man took the answer in stride. He merely nodded and finished stringing his bow, all his attention seemingly focussed on his weapon.  
"So they mean to surround us? Cut us off from the road?"

"No, young one." Ciryon shook his head calmly. "They already have us surrounded; the road is blocked. Our only way out would be through the thickets in the southwest, and the Valar know how far we would get on foot anyway. Do you see the tree with the low-hanging branches and the shadows that it casts?"

"Yes."

"They're no shadows."

As if to underline his statement, their mysterious attackers chose this moment to abandon their attempts at stealth, clearly quite aware of the fact that their prey already knew about their presence. A low-pitched whirring sound filled the air, and Ciryon was just fast enough to grab Ferneth's sleeve and yank him to the ground. A second later three black, thick arrows imbedded themselves in the bark behind them, right where their chests had been a moment ago. The two of them scrambled for cover behind the large tree, and even despite the noise of whistling arrows and the task of drawing his bow and picking off dark, lumbering shapes one by one, Ciryon could hear the voice of his companion and the almost comical indignation in it.

"What in the name of Eru Ilúvatar and all the Valar are _orcs_ doing here? Shouldn't they be in their caves and holes?"

Oh, they most definitely should be, Ciryon agreed silently as the notched an arrow and let it fly, watching with some amount of satisfaction how it burrowed itself in the throat of one of their attackers. There were two things that were hard to deny at the moment: That these were, in fact, orcs, and that there were a whole lot more than merely fifteen.

Orcs didn't behave like this when left to their own devices. Orcs didn't plan like this, or executed plans so faultlessly and stealthily, or, for that matter, travelled in the early evening or late afternoon. They could, of course, when the sun was already sinking and the shadows were long and allowed them to move relatively painlessly, but they didn't like it at all. And orcs only did things that they didn't like when one of two things happened: They absolutely had to, or someone of whom they were afraid ordered them to.

Ciryon didn't really know if he was less thrilled about having to fight obedient orcs or desperate orcs, but he knew very well that he didn't like the prospect in its entirety.

He didn't have much choice in the matter, though. Long before he had used all of the arrows he had stuck in the ground – he had known he would need them, he thought absently – the orcs were upon them, and the question of whether or not he _liked_ to fight them became instantly and violently moot. His long sword gleamed in the gloomy light that filled the area around the tree until its blade became fouled by dark blood and gore, and the only thing that gleamed then were the yellowish eyes of his attackers.

Ciryon ducked under a blow that nearly would have taken his head off, thrust his blade into the side of an orc as he straightened back up, and decided with utter calmness that they stood no chance at all of getting out of this alive. Ferneth was still holding his ground, eyes wide with fear and battle-lust as he ferociously slashed at the dark creatures all around them, but neither of them could hold out forever.

Ah well, he thought morbidly as he stabbed at one of the orcs and hissed in annoyance as the creature jumped back with a surprisingly nimble movement. Eighty or thirty-five, there really wasn't that much of a difference, was there? 

The ferocity of battle filled him then, and for a few minutes all he knew was thrust and parry, thrust and parry and an occasional quick movement to avoid getting his head cut off. Unfortunately, those quick movements to avoid getting his – or Ferneth's – head cut off quickly became more frequent, and the smooth rhythm of thrust and parry became more desperate and lost all the smoothness it might have possessed in the beginning.

And, worse than even that, panic began to creep through the mental shields that had always served him so well in many battles. This was worse, far, far worse than anything he had ever experienced. They wouldn't get out of this alive, and the only possible outcome he could see was death or, worse yet, captivity. And no matter what, thirty-five really wasn't that good an age to die.

The noises of this increasingly one-sided battle were all he could hear, and the snarls and yells of the orcs mingled with the clanging sound of metal meeting metal. Then, when he was just stumbling out of the way of a blow that would have shattered at least a rib or two if not more, Ciryon saw something that he couldn't believe at first: The dark mass of orcs in front of him moved, with some of them detaching themselves from the main group. At first he couldn't for the life of him figure out why they would do such a thing. A second later he heard the pounding of hooves and the increasingly aggressive hissing of the dark creatures around them, and his heart filled with hope that quickly turned to dismay as he turned his head the tiniest bit and spied two riders that were galloping towards them, the horses' hooves kicking up thick clouds of dust.

Two riders, he thought. Two against more orcs than he could count in his current – admittedly rather distracted – state. Eru, they were indeed doomed, and they would be taking more of their comrades with them.

If he'd had any breath left, he would have called to them to get out away from here while they still could. Ferneth and he weren't going anywhere, nothing and nobody would change that, and someone had to tell the captain what was going on. He didn't want to die, Valar, no, he wanted to _live_, but he had no intention of dragging down someone with them, least of all two of their own people.

Feeling renewed fury pulse through him, he slashed at the orc in front at him, hitting the beast in the side and cutting through tendons and bones. The orc went down in a spray of dark blood, but he had lingered a second too long and received a long cut down the length of his sword arm from another orc before he could dance out of reach. Agony spread through his forearm with remarkable speed, its intensity almost robbing him of breath and composure and thus disarming him. The pain suddenly became secondary, though, and his head whipped around as he heard the voice of one of the riders, rising strong and clear over the clamour of battle.

"Elendil!"

Ciryon felt how fierce determination spread through him at the sound of the familiar battle cry, only to be joined quickly by disbelief as he recognised the voice. What was the boy _doing _here, in Elbereth's name? Wonderful, he decided ironically, ducking under a scimitar and smashing his fist that was clutching his sword hilt into the face of his attacker. Now if these orcs didn't kill him, Haldar and the elf lords would.

Then the riders were intercepted by the smaller group of orcs, still some dozen yards away from the large tree they were using for cover, in the very moment that Ferneth cried out and fell, only to disappear almost immediately under a throng of orc bodies. It had happened so quickly that Ciryon hadn't even seen what had happened, hadn't seen who or what had injured him.

A second later the horde was upon him, pressing bodily against him in order to overwhelm him by sheer numbers, and he found himself literally lifted off his feet and slammed hard into the tree. There was a sharp pain in his side that he couldn't place or explain, and the sky tilted and swayed dizzily. He was falling, just like young Ferneth had fallen a moment ago, and while he collapsed Ciryon asked the Valar for forgiveness for having led two of his friends to their deaths, and for having doomed two more to the same fate. Maybe they would forgive him, because he was sure that the elf lords never would.

Then the darkness washed over him like a great tidal wave, and the world fell away behind him.

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TBC...

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_mellon nín - my friend  
gwarth - betrayer, traitor_

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Before anyone says it: Yes, I know that Daervagor isn't REALLY Aragorn's uncle. If he is Gilraen's first cousin, he is in fact Aragorn's first cousin once removed. But Rangers are no Hobbits, and besides, this kind of cousin really usually IS treated more like uncles or aunts - they are, after all, often roughly your parents' age. Be that as it may, I DO admit that this is a cliffy. I'm sorry, but I needed one. I haven't written one in ages! So, we'll see who gets out of this and in what condition (and who doesn't) in the next chapter, so stay tuned! Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated, thanks!**

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**Additional A/N:**

And now, as always, my apologies, namely to: CrazyAZN Kid and Tatsumaki-sama. Since I reply to reviews via a big group mail thingy, I need to have valid email addresses. So, if you wish to be included, please don't forget to sign in before reviewing or, if you review anonymously, to leave me an email address. Thanks, and sorry for the inconvenience!


	15. A Hairbreadth Escape

** Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

Okay, I'm just running into this post and straight out again. Well, maybe not STRAIGHT out... •g• So, I'm right now in England visiting my friends again, which of course meant that I had to go through that whole adaptor/AOL nightmare again. Why would anyone voluntarily install that software? •shakes head• Be that as it may, I have now successfully convinced my laptop to work and to accept the AOL software - both no simple feats, let me tell you! - and am now back in business.

I still have an essay due on Monday and two big papers after that, but since the weather is ... well, English here, I have some time to actually sit down and write at the moment. So, I think it's safe to say that I won't need three weeks for the next chapter. But hey, I'm not promising anything - I hate getting these death threats... Then again, my alter ego seems to enjoy them, so I guess it'd be okay. •g•

So, without further ado, I give you the second part of the cliffhanger. It is once again proven that the Valar hate Aragorn and - yes, it's true, everybody who associates with him -, Skagrosh almost comes to the decision that Rangers are more trouble than they're worth (and if he were just a bit more intelligent, he would, too)**, Hírgaer makes an appearance, and the twins and Legolas have a little discussion with Daervagor. No one is particularly happy about that, least of all Daervagor. Oh, and there's blood and doom, but that kind of goes without saying, right? •g•**

Enjoy and review, please! 

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Chapter 15

This, Aragorn admitted honestly as he was pulled off his horse and crashed to the ground, had been an exceptionally bad idea.

If he'd had a bit more time – or any time at all – he would have gone on pondering their predicament, his bad luck and, maybe, the possibility that his father had been right all along and that he sometimes acted like a complete idiot and without giving any thoughts to the consequences of his actions.

Well, maybe not that last one. It would take far more than a horde of orcs to make him even consider the veracity of that particular, naturally preposterous statement.

Things being what they were, he didn't have the time to do that – or anything else, for that matter – and could only grasp his sword as tightly as he could and roll to the side, just in time to escape the troll-like orc that pounced on him. The creature would have squashed him like an oliphaunt a bug, but this way Aragorn was able to regain his feet without being messily dismembered or crushed. It didn't do him much good, of course. Within half a second he was surrounded by what looked like half the orc population of Mordor.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Amlaith crash to the ground as a score of orcs simply took hold of his clothing and pulled him off his mount. The horse whinnied shrilly, the sound cutting through the warm air and into his still aching head, and before Aragorn even knew what he was doing, he was moving, kicking and pushing his way through the throng of orcs in an attempt to reach the other ranger's side. Amlaith wasn't moving, having apparently been stunned by the violent fall, and if he didn't do something, he would be skewered where he lay.

And since _he _was the reason for Amlaith being here in the first place, letting that happen would be highly impolite.

Aragorn reached the other's still prone figure just in time to barrel more or less head-first into an orc who had pushed its way past the panicking horse without getting its head smashed in and who was in the process of trying to impale the other ranger on a rather wicked-looking, serrated blade. The orc had clearly not counted on him being able to reach them so quickly – if it had been thinking about anything at all, really – and was so rather surprised by his sudden appearance – and also by the sword that found its way between its ribs.

Aragorn barely registered the expression of unadulterated surprise on the falling orc's face before he whirled around to meet the attack of another snarling creature. Amlaith's horse was still behind them, eyes rolling and hooves striking at any orc that dared to venture too close to it, but it was only a matter of time until it would bolt. And when that happened …. well, suffice to say that there were better ways to commit suicide than to find oneself in the middle of a horde of orcs without something or someone to cover one's back.

This was quickly going from bad to worse, he decided as he brought his sword up in a block that only just saved him from having his head chopped off. They hadn't had any time to prepare or any time to plan anything. They had rounded a bend in the road and had more or less stumbled straight into the ambush that had snapped shut around Ciryon and his men. Before they even knew what was happening – and before they had done more than draw their weapons and spur on their horses – they were already surrounded by more orcs than he had ever seen away from the Misty Mountains. One second he had been sitting on his horse, adrenaline pumping through him as he tried to figure out how in the name of all the Valar they would get out of this one alive, the next he had been falling, the sharp, broken nails of his attackers digging into his skin as he was pulled off his mount's back.

And now, Aragorn summed up sourly, Ráca was somewhere out of his reach, he couldn't see Ciryon or any of his men, he was surrounded by at least two dozen snarling orcs, and Amlaith was lying on the ground without giving as much as a groan or twitching.

And to make everything worse, he still had a headache.

His next attacker helpfully offered to help him with that problem, and only his quick, elven-trained reflexes enabled him to twist out of the way of a club-like spear that would have shattered his head into at least two dozen pieces. Aragorn retaliated and had just enough time to notice that the orc wasn't fast enough to avoid the blow when he felt more than saw Amlaith's horse move away from them.

Cursing under his breath in a way that would have made even the most seasoned warrior blush, Aragorn slashed at a particularly adventurous orc and briefly bent a knee. A second later he had taken a hold of Amlaith's shirt and was pulling the feebly moving man to his feet, eyes darting from one orc to the next. Their yellowish eyes were gleaming brightly in the dying light, full of hunger and hatred and bloodlust, but they didn't attack them. They were closing in on them, yes, but they could have killed them any number of times already. That, of course, could only mean that they didn't want them dead, at least not yet, and Aragorn felt how a cold shiver ran down his back. He had the very distinct feeling that he would prefer it if they tried to kill them.

"This would be a good time to wake up," he said, his voice pressed and flat. "Amlaith! Wake up!"

"What?" the other ranger mumbled quite ineloquently, forcing uncooperative eyelids to open. "We … what?"

Aragorn was about to repeat his earlier words when he felt Amlaith's body stiffen as the memory of what had happened came back to him. The other ranger had lost his sword sometime over the past few minutes, and so he drew a knife with a slightly shaking hand as he moved to stand back to back with Aragorn. The orcs around them hissed and snarled and muttered to each other in their hideous language, and Aragorn felt how his heart slowly but steadily turned to ice. He might have someone guarding his back now, but that was in reality no great comfort. He would have liked to ask Amlaith if he had any ideas as to how they might survive the next ten minutes, but the majority of the orcs would understand what they said, and speaking Sindarin would only openly antagonise them.

Antagonising the enemy, especially in a hopeless situation like this one, was a good, time-honoured tradition of his, but he somehow doubted that it wouldn't be followed by immediate and possibly fatal consequences in this case.

"Can you see Ciryon or one of his men?" he asked instead, his eyes darting from one snarling orcish face to the next. Just when you thought that you had seen the most hideous features imaginable to man or elf, another orc moved forward and proved you wrong. "Or, well, _anything_ that might help us get out of this alive?"

He felt Amlaith shake his head behind him, either to signify that he hadn't or in order to clear his head. Neither of the possibilities made him feel any better.  
"No," the other ranger said, his voice clipped. "I saw him fall just before I did."

That was not good. Aragorn glanced to the left, noticing out of the corner of his eye that a burly orc was trying to sneak up on him, obviously intending to grab his sword arm, and he lashed out with his sword, driving the dark creature back. It snarled at him, baring long, rotten teeth, but Aragorn wasn't paying attention. The rest of the orcs was closing in on them, moving with purposeful, stealthy movements that caused a cold shiver to run down his back. He couldn't help but remember Amlaith's friend's body and the way the flies had been buzzing around it, and for a brief but thoroughly nauseating moment he saw his own face, still and blank-eyed and covered with insects.

"I am sorry," Aragorn said, his eyes not leaving the snarling faces in front of him. "You were right. We should have brought reinforcements."

"Yes," Amlaith agreed lightly. "We should have." His voice sounded stronger already, Aragorn noticed. Being faced with painful and immediate death was a wonderful way to shake off lethargy and the urge to pass out. "Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn't it?"

"Quite." Aragorn nodded his head.

"They want us alive, don't they?" Amlaith asked, his voice still calm and unconcerned and sounding as if he was doing nothing more than discuss the duty roster of the day. It was bold-faced bravado and not by any means a mirror of what he really felt, Aragorn was aware of that, but he somehow found it strangely reassuring.

"I think so, yes."

"I was afraid you would say that," Amlaith said darkly. The orcs shifted closer, clearly taking great care not to get into the range of their weapons yet, and Amlaith hissed angrily. "Damn them," he muttered softly. "What are they waiting for, by Varda's stars?"

If Aragorn hadn't been so busy eyeing their adversaries with a mixture of distaste and contempt, he would have hit the other ranger. This kind of remark was among the worst you could think of in this kind of situation, let alone say out loud. It ranged, in his opinion, closely behind "Well, it can't possibly get any worse now, can it?" and was, once more in his opinion, about the most reliable way of making sure that something terrible happened to you in the next two seconds.

As it turned out, it was about five seconds, not two – he was being pessimistic again, as the twins would tell him. An inarticulate shout rent the air that was already almost humming with tension, coming from somewhere behind them. If there was a word in it, Aragorn could not decipher it, but apparently the orcs had no such problems. Moving with a synchronicity that was frightening to behold and so un-orcish that Aragorn's brain had distinctive problems wrapping itself around the very concept, the horde pressed forward, snarling and hissing. Aragorn had just enough time to decide somewhat wonderingly that the noise sounded like one of the large beehives that they had in Rivendell before the first creatures crashed into him, almost lifting him off his feet and slamming his back into Amlaith's.

Behind him, he could hear Amlaith call out, but he could not say if it had been in anger or in pain. He was far too busy trying to defend himself, with, as he decided darkly as he tried to duck out of the way of a large, metal-plated club, special emphasis on "trying". There were simply too many of them, and even though the orcs were quite clearly trying not to kill them but merely to disable them, they were anything but gentle.

Then again, he thought absently, twisting to the side and intercepting a blow to his head, it was quite hard to be gentle when wielding clubs of any kind, least of all the metal-plated variety. Metal-plated clubs send a message, a very simple and obvious one, and it was as far removed from gentleness as possible.

In the end, the fight was over quickly. It was something that didn't surprise Aragorn overly much – he was spending far too much time with Glorfindel, as the twins would say – and even while he was positively yanked into a dully gleaming scimitar and a sharp pain went through his left side he decided gloomily that they had lasted about four seconds longer than he'd thought. The pain in his abdomen suddenly increased exponentially as the orcish blade was roughly withdrawn, and all thoughts left his mind and faded into nothing in face of the agony that suddenly seemed to consume him.

He hadn't noticed that his knees had given out, and so he was quite surprised by the way he suddenly made rather painful contact with the ground. His sword fell from his suddenly lifeless fingers, producing a clattering sound as it hit a protruding tree root, and Aragorn found with faint, numb fascination that it was the most interesting sight he had ever beheld. For a few heartbeats, it felt as if time had simply stopped or was at least progressing at the speed of slowly trickling honey. Then, he felt someone grab his arms and pull them behind him, and time sped back up as he was roughly pulled to his feet.

The reality to which he returned wasn't an overly pleasant one. It was to be expected, of course – only seconds ago it had included metal-plated weaponry, so it would have been overly optimistic to expect a sudden positive change. For a few moments, Aragorn stared at the slowly spreading red stain on his shirt, trying to make sense of it. He had inordinate problems connecting the blossoming mark with the pain that stabbed through his side with every breath he took, but when his right arm was brutally twisted and he was jerked to the side, everything came together with a start and coalesced into a distressing picture of crystal clarity.

His right side collided with something rather unyielding, sending waves of pain through his side and torso, and Aragorn forced his neck to co-operate and looked up, straight into the smirking face of an orc. It was a sight he did not relish at all, a feeling that was only strengthened when the dark creature allowed its yellow eyes to travel from his face to his bloodstained side. Greedy anticipation laid itself over the orc's twisted features, and Aragorn felt how nausea joined the pain and fear inside of him. He had the very distinct feeling that that orc didn't see much more than its next meal when it looked at him.

The fear quite quickly turned into panic when he saw the other orcs that were surrounding him, and he turned his head to the right, reasoning that whatever he had been pushed into had to be a more pleasant sight than this one. He was quite wrong, of course. The unyielding object turned out to be Amlaith, who was as white-faced as he felt. The other ranger, too, was held by two burly orcs, but even while he stared at the beasts surrounding them with murderous hatred, Aragorn saw the reason for his ghostly pallor: His sword arm was bent at an angle no human limb had ever been meant to be bent and was quite clearly broken. One of his orc guards had his clawed hand firmly clasped over the break, despite or because of the injury, and the pain must have been excruciating.

His panic went up another notch, and Aragorn worked hard not to show it. He had known from the beginning of this … catastrophe … that they most likely wouldn't escape, but he had expected to die in battle, taking as many of his adversaries with him as humanly possible. What he hadn't been prepared for was being captured, and all doubts he might have had concerning Baran's fate were disappearing like snow in the sun. He would personally eat his sword if these rather un-orcish orcs weren't what had happened to Amlaith's friend, and if there was someone who looked as if he enjoyed plucking a few eyes out before breakfast, it was the orc that was striding towards them now, looking none too happy.

It was taller than most of the other creatures and somewhat darker of skin. There was a gleeful, dark light shining in its eyes that spoke of enjoyment of the current situation as well as of cruel anticipation, and Aragorn didn't even have to see the way the other orcs backed away from it to know that it was the leader of this horde. Aragorn took a deep breath and did his best to look calm and composed and not like someone hanging bleeding in the arms of two orcs and could see Amlaith do the same, but they needn't have bothered. The large orc only gave them a quick, thoroughly disconcerting leering grin as it walked straight past them and stopped in front of some of the orcs to their left. To Aragorn, they all looked the same, but it was clear that it had found the ones it had been looking for.

"Now, worms," Skagrosh began, his voice as sharp and threatening as the hissing of an ill-tempered, poisonous snake which someone had just trodden on the tail, "what were the orders concerning the little _tarks_ here?"

The two orcs thus addressed lowered their heads, and Aragorn absurdly found himself reminded of a pair of scolded school boys – if there hadn't been the blood-stained weapons that the two of them held. The two orcs didn't answer, and so the larger creature grasped one of them by the throat and lifted it into the air, not looking as if he was doing anything strenuous at all.

"What were me orders?" he bellowed.

The orc currently dangling a good foot above the ground tried to speak, clearly motivated to explain its actions by the sudden lack of oxygen.  
"Not … to kill … them…"

"That's right, scum," the larger creature said, a dark smile on its hideous face. "The orders were not t'kill them without me permission. And why not?"

"Because … Master…" the dangling orc gasped.

"Because the Master said so, yes," the other said almost good-naturedly. "You disobeyed him, worm. More of you cave-scum did, but you I saw. And what happens when you disobey the Master, I wonder?"

It was clear that the two other orcs knew what did, as did the rest of the horde. Almost before Aragorn could blink, the two orcs were lying lifelessly on the ground, one with a crushed windpipe and the other with a rather large scimitar sticking out of its neck. The leader looked down on them dispassionately before he yanked his blade back out, grinning at the wet, sucking noise.

"Skai!" Skagrosh said in disgust and spat on the ground before he turned around, evilly glittering eyes immediately fixing on the two rangers. He wouldn't have looked any different if he had just pulled the wings off a fly.

"Now," he said as he came to a stop in front of them, "what have we got here?"

Aragorn would have loved to tell him that and about a hundred other things, among them what he thought of the orcish race in general and him in particular and what he would like to do to all of them, but he wisely elected to remain quiet. Firstly, it would serve no purpose to make this creature angry who had just executed two of his men without showing the slightest sign of hesitation or doubt, and secondly, he wasn't sure if he would be able to keep his swiftly mounting fear out of his voice.

This was all wrong, he ranted inside his head. From out of the corners of his eyes, he could see that there were some smaller groups of orcs that were hurrying to reach what looked like strategic positions and that looked suspiciously like predetermined guard contingents. Orcs didn't act like this. Orcs didn't predetermine anything to this extent.

These orcs weren't behaving like real orcs should; they were too well-trained, too organised, too disciplined – well, if one disregarded this little Don't-kill-the-prisoners misunderstanding. No matter how well-trained, Orcs were Orcs, and an orc's instinct was to kill when you gave it a lethal weapon and pointed it at someone. This was all wrong, terribly wrong in so many ways that almost choked him with fear and dread. Right now, Aragorn would have given his right arm for some goblins who behaved like normal goblins ought.

Skagrosh grinned at the two rangers, yellow eyes wandering from one to the other. Both of them were tall, taller than him, and both had dark hair as all of their thrice-cursed kind did. To him, they looked exactly the same.

"So, which one should we keep, boys?" he asked, half-turning around to the rest of the horde.

The other orcs jeered and moved forward, with their swords and scimitars and clubs raised high and clearly looking forward to some more fun. Aragorn didn't dare direct a look at Amlaith and stared straight ahead, working hard to keep his face impassive. Being torn to pieces by an orc horde was not his idea of a glorious death, that much was certain.

"Now, that's a hard choice, ain't it?" the large orc went on, one of his hands shooting out and grasping Aragorn's chin before he could turn his head to the side. "This one?" he asked, broken and dirty nails digging painfully into the young ranger's chin as he inspected his face. "Or the other one maybe? Which one is the leader?"

"Don't know, sir." One of Aragorn's guards shrugged. "Came out of nowhere, filthy _tarks_ that they are. Didn't say much at all."

Skagrosh grimaced slightly, looking from the one in front of him to the other. Not much of a difference between them, he thought to himself, except that the other might have been a little older and wasn't quite as tall. Both looked the same, were dressed the same, and glared at him in the same way. Well, they'd fix that soon enough. The others hadn't been so proud anymore after a day or two.

The only problem they had now was that the Master had ordered him to bring him the leader. Skagrosh was clever for an orc, even if he thought so himself, and he had the sneaking suspicion that one of the annoying little worms they'd cut down over by that tree had been the man the Master had wanted. These two were his only chance to make this right – and if he made a mistake and brought the Master the wrong one, it would be the last one he'd ever commit.

Nothing to it, he finally decided. They didn't have the time to stick around and try to find out, and he really didn't want to find out what would happen if they disregarded the Master's orders and brought two instead of one.

"Him," he finally said, nodding at the boy whose chin he was still holding.

The two orcs that were holding the prisoner in place exchanged a quick look.  
"He's a little … bruised around the edges, sir," one of them finally said bravely. "Might be better to take the other one, sir. Might last longer, that one might."

Skagrosh frowned slightly and studied the boy. The others were right, it seemed; he _was_ slightly damaged. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, mind you. Long-lasting fun was one thing, having to wait for hours or even days for a single scream because the prisoners were too stubborn was quite another.

"No, boys," he said, turning around and grinning at the others. "This might make everything even more fun. I think he'll do nicely."

He intentionally dug his fingers into the soft skin of the boy's throat before he let go of him, a twisted smile on his lips as he saw the signs of pain and fear that the young ranger was so desperately trying to hide. He turned away and nodded at the orcs standing behind the other ranger, whose face hadn't changed at all and who was still looking as if he didn't have a care in the world and simply didn't care much for his present company.

"Kill the other. No need to drag him around with us."

The others grinned and jeered, clawed hands reaching greedily for the still man. Skagrosh's grin widened as he saw the desperate look that the boy gave his companion, but before the others could carry out his orders, shouts could be heard from down the road. Within seconds the others around them had started talking as well, with a good part of them yelling and demanding that someone damn well start explaining what all this was about. The commotion only died down when the circle of tightly-packed orcs parted like fog in the wind and three orcs pushed their way through, leading a fair-haired man whose arms had been twisted behind his back. There was a bleeding cut on the side of his head and his lower lip was bruised, but otherwise he appeared to be uninjured.

Aragorn, who had a second ago been staring in horror at Amlaith, almost hung his head again, praying that blood loss had made him delusional. He didn't like Hírgaer overly much, was in fact rather sure that he positively _disliked_ him, but that didn't mean that he wanted him find himself in this situation as well.

Well, it wasn't his fault, he told himself defensively, worry, pain and fear transforming into irrational annoyance. He would be responsible for Amlaith's death and those of Ciryon and his men, he was so very painfully aware of that, but Hírgaer shouldn't even _be_ here. Weren't his brother and he stationed further to the east, by that often-mentioned creek he had never seen?

They were, Aragorn decided darkly, his head beginning to swim from either too much adrenaline or too little blood. It wasn't his fault _at all_.

Skagrosh didn't seem to care about whose fault it was. He stopped where he was, the two rangers behind him forgotten for the moment, and stared at the fair-haired man who was right now being pulled to a stop in front of him. He didn't look as if he was very impressed or afraid; in fact, his mouth was curving mockingly, suggesting that this was the largest gathering of amateurish imbeciles that he had ever seen. If Aragorn hadn't been so busy not passing out, he would have seen it and would have asked himself if he was being included in said gathering.

"Well, well, well," Skagrosh said, aiming for an unconcerned tone of voice and missing it by a good yard or two. The Master hadn't made him the leader for nothing, and he was quite certain that random people appearing out of nowhere was not a good thing. "If that's not a nice little surprise. Where did you find him, boys?"

"Over by the trees, sir," one of the three guards said, yanking on Hírgaer's arm for emphasis. Hírgaer almost lazily turned his head and gave the orc a look full of such dark promise that it seemed to have rendered it quite capable of moving or speaking.

"Was skulking about, he was," the second guard said, when it became apparent that his companion wouldn't say any more and that their superior was getting impatient. "He killed five of us before we could grab him."

Skagrosh gave a bellow of rage, immediately moved forward and didn't stop until he was about two inches away from the orc's broken nose, demanding to know what in the Name of the Great Eye had happened that one little human had managed to kill so many of them without anybody doing anything to stop him. The orc cowered a little but tried to defend itself, and what in the Name of the One _did it matter_, Aragorn asked himself desperately. Hírgaer was here – which he shouldn't be – and he had been captured – which he also shouldn't have been. Why was he here in the first place? Where was Ereneth? And did that self-assured little smirk of his mean anything or was it just his default expression?

He must have shown his feelings a little too openly, for his guards brutally pulled him back, apparently having interpreted his agitation as the intention to try and escape their grasp. Aragorn could barely bite back the moan of pain that almost escaped his lips at the rough treatment and the pain that stabbed through him, and for a second he had to close his eyes against the large, black spots that appeared in front of his eyes. When he opened them again, the smirk on Hírgaer's face had disappeared. He was staring at the orcs that held onto Aragorn's arms with dark green eyes that promised swift and painful retribution, and Aragorn immediately felt a little better. The older ranger wasn't looking as if he was wishing he could exact said painful retribution. He looked as if he knew that he would, and soon.

Hírgaer definitely had a plan; he just hoped that he could stay conscious long enough to see him implement it. If that was before Amlaith or Hírgaer or he were killed by the orcs, all the better.

It didn't look as if that would happen, though. Skagrosh was finished berating the guards – something that had included yelling a lot and giving the orc that was the slowest to duck a glorious black eye – and now turned his attention to his new prisoner. It was amazing how many humans you got when you only wanted one.

"So, little human," he said, bravely disregarding the fact that Hírgaer was quite a bit taller than he. "What are you doing here, eh?"

"He's one of them rangers, sir," the orc with the black eye said, not being able to resist the opportunity to correct his superior. "He's got one of their shiny little stars, see?"

Skagrosh did see the brooch at the blond one's throat, and did not relish being corrected in public. This no-good piece of cave-scum would pay for this later, he promised himself.

"A little _tark_, are we?" he asked, reaching out and dragging a long nail over the cut in Hírgaer's cheek. "Now that's interesting. How did you find us, scum?"

Hírgaer twisted his head to the side and out of the orc's reach, mild distaste joining the mocking amusement in his eyes.  
"It really wasn't that hard. I simply looked at the ground and followed your tracks, _orch_."

Hírgaer, Aragorn decided as the orcs around them recoiled at the sound of the Elvish word, had clearly not been present for the Do-not-antagonise-your-captors speech. Then again, if he knew him at all, he had been present but had simply not cared very much for it. Skagrosh's reaction was swift and predictable, once he had got rid of the painful ringing in his ears: He pulled back and delivered a hard blow to his prisoner's face that would have knocked the ranger off his feet if he hadn't been safely held by his guards.

"You should follow the example of your friends here, worm," he hissed malevolently while Hírgaer stoically shook his head from side to side. "Where's the rest of your friends, eh? You _tarks_ are too scared now to go anywhere alone; like frightened chickens you always stick together. There must be someone with you."

"Yes." Hírgaer nodded calmly. The orcs began to mutter and move restlessly, and he used the brief commotion to give the other two rangers what he hoped was a meaningful look. He doubted that they had noticed it; Amlaith looked too angry to truly notice anything and Estel was only a few minutes from losing consciousness, at least judging by the amount of blood that covered his side and the blank looks he gave his surroundings out of half-lidded eyes. The muttering stopped as the orcs' leader bellowed an order, and he added, "Yes, there was someone with me."

The large orc grinned, displaying the lack of several teeth, and patted his cheek.  
"Now, that's better, scum. So where is he?"

"Not here."

Skagrosh kept on grinning, but the grin slowly began to fade. This little worm should be quivering where he stood, should be pleading for his life – should at least show some sort of sign that he was afraid. He didn't, though, and while the orc wasn't intelligent enough to figure out why, he did know that he didn't like it. Bravado was one thing, he had seen that often enough, but this was something else. This one _knew_ something.

"Why's that, pretty boy?" he asked, running his clawed fingers over the ranger's stubbly cheek and not caring that he opened shallow scratches in the process. The boy _was_ pretty, too, with his greenish eyes and fair hair, almost as pretty as the other one with those large grey eyes of his. Maybe they would take this one as well, just to be sure. The Master couldn't fault them _that_ much for wanting to make sure, could he?

Aragorn found that it was harder and harder to concentrate, and the pain in his side was fading. That was a bad sign, a part of him told him insistently, but he couldn't really remember why. He still had enough presence of mind left to feel worry for the fair-haired ranger pulse through him, worry that was mixed with something like anticipatory fear. Valar, please let Hírgaer have a plan, he thought, because no matter what happened, he would not be able to hang onto consciousness for much longer. He didn't want to lose the battle against the pressing darkness in the knowledge that he would wake up in some orc cave, far removed from sun and stars and with his comrades' blood on his hands.

Hírgaer, if anything, looked even more unconcerned. He studied the orc in front of him with the same keen interest he would have given a particularly interesting insect, and his mouth curved into a smile so mocking that it would have plunged the most even-tempered of the Wise into a state of uncontrollable fury.

"And here I thought that to be obvious," he said, apparently more to himself. "Ah, but wait. You're not the most intelligent of creatures, are you?"

The smile grew more mocking still, even despite the fact that Skagrosh's fingers closed around his windpipe and threatened to cut off his air supply.

"Funny, _tark_, real funny. We'll see how funny you are in a few days, won't we? Why is your little friend not with you, scum?"

"He's as tall as a bloody tree," Hírgaer said, sounding aggrieved in his brother's stead. "And he's not here," he added, his smile widening into a grin, "because he left to find reinforcements."

And then, moving with lazy precision, the ranger butted his head against the orc's skull. Skagrosh grunted in surprise and let go of his prisoner while the other orcs simply stood still and stared, unable to understand what was going on around them. As if on cue, an arrow slammed into the chest of one of the blond ranger's guards, causing the orc to collapsed in a spray of dark blood. A second arrow grazed the other guard's shoulder and the orc clutched at the injury with a shriek of pain. Hírgaer, once released, dropped to the ground.

It took only half a second more for the orcs to realise what was going on and for complete chaos to set in. Unable to see where the attack came from, the dark creatures ran into one direction and then the other while whistling arrows continued to rain down on them, creating quite a pandemonium in the process. In a matter of seconds, most orcs had abandoned their posts and were running for cover or into the direction from which they thought the arrows came, with Skagrosh bellowing in the background as he tried to re-establish some measure of control.

The only ones that had _not_ abandoned their posts were the ones guarding the two dark-haired rangers, something that didn't surprise Aragorn overly much. It was just his kind of luck, after all. Still, this was it, the best and most likely only chance not to be killed in the next few minutes. Even despite the fact that his head was spinning by now and despite the way the ground wavered back and forth, Aragorn decided to seize the opportunity and slammed his shoulder into the stomach of one of his guards. The orc grunted and went down, momentarily dazed by the blow, but the other one wasn't surprised so easily. Before Aragorn had even fully turned around, the dark creature had drawn back and, letting go of his arm for a second, slammed the club it held into his already injured side.

For a curious second, there was no additional pain and only the strange feeling of the raised metal bands cutting into his flesh. Then, the world simply ceased to exist for him as hot, blinding pain swept through him, making as simple a task as breathing a complete impossibility. He didn't know how long it took him to climb back out of that dark pit full of agony and panic – or even why he climbed out of it in the first place, since unconsciousness seemed so much more preferable right now – but when he pried open his eyes an undisclosed amount of time later, he realised that it couldn't have been much more than maybe a minute, if even that.

The screaming and shrieking had not abated and still filled the air, even though it had been joined by a curious noise he couldn't immediately identify. It took him several heartbeats to realise that it was the sound of metal hitting metal, and several more to decide that this was a good thing. Someone was tugging at his arm, trying to heave him to his feet, and Aragorn had still not managed to gather the energy to turn his head to find out who when a shadow fell over his face, briefly causing him to close his eyes. When he opened them again he saw Amlaith, a large bruise on his forehead that seemed to grow larger and darker by the second, pulling an orc scimitar out of the body of his remaining guard. The other ranger was grinning grimly and looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying himself. He was sure that there was some sort of causal relationship between all this, but he didn't possess the strength to try and figure out what it was.

He suddenly felt how he was grabbed by his arm and hauled upright with a movement that caused the world to spin and his side to scream in pain and that elicited a groan from him, and this time it didn't stop. While he was dragged through a dark chaos of screams and gleaming steel and frightening, distorted shadows, he decided absently that it was rather hard to concentrate on anything when the ground kept tilting like that and the sky turned upside down with that kind of frequency. He closed one eye for a second, but that didn't change anything either.

He was pushed down onto the ground, his back meeting with something hard and rough, and he still had enough strength left to open his eyes and try to assess his surroundings. They hadn't moved far, he saw; only maybe twenty or thirty yards over to the left where a small copse of young trees – well, a clump of bushes, really – offered some protection. The dark shapes all around them were orcs, he guessed, orcs that tried to escape this chaos that had so suddenly descended on the road. That knowledge was the reason why he startled visibly when someone suddenly stopped in front of him, appearing with the abruptness of someone just dropping out of a tree. He wasn't the only one, though. Amlaith whirled around, quick as a startled snake, and only just managed to stop the blow he had aimed at the other's neck.

"Manwë's breath, man," Amlaith swore, having to raise his voice to make himself heard over the sound of the fighting. His left arm hung limply at his side, but his right hand was closed around the scimitar's handle so tightly that his knuckles showed white through the tanned skin. "I almost killed you!"

Hírgaer raised an eyebrow but didn't comment on that, but he helped him move Aragorn – who hardly had the energy to keep his eyes open now – further into the meagre shelter that the brush offered. The orcs' leader had apparently realised that this would not end well for him or his men and was beginning to order them to retreat, even though it wasn't immediately apparent why he would do that. Hírgaer didn't know exactly how many men Ereneth had found, but it could hardly be more than a dozen and most likely not even that many. They were still horribly outnumbered. Besides, the orcs' retreat didn't mean that they would leave them alone. Orcs were orcs, and none of them would hesitate to make a small detour to kill them should they spot them.

Amlaith nodded his thanks, gave Aragorn a quick, worried look and turned back to the fighting, which he surveyed with unadulterated admiration. Orcs were running from south to north-west, away from them and the road. Daervagor's men were skilled enough, it seemed – but … yes, they were really here ... having a few enraged elf lords on your side never hurt, of course. It was an impressive plan to shake out of your sleeve just like that, that much was certain.

"This was your plan?" he asked, apparently willing to give Hírgaer the benefit of the doubt. "All of this?"

"Well," the blond ranger began modestly, pausing slightly as he drew a pilfered orcish bow to pick off an orc that was running past their hiding place, "something like it, yes. In reality I just sent back my brother to find our relief as soon as we found the tracks. Damned if I know where he found the commander, or the elves. I wasn't too sure he'd come back for me at all."

"Oh?" Amlaith said politely as he pulled one of the daggers he had taken from his guards, weighed it and finally let it fly with a flick of his wrist. It burrowed itself in the chest of the single orc that seemed to have chosen their current position as a hiding place, felling it on the spot. "And why is that?"

"Oh, he gets distracted sometimes," Hírgaer answered. "Standing as high above the ground as he does, I wonder how he keeps noticing so many things."

It was something Aragorn, too, had wondered many times in the past, mostly in connection with his brothers. He went on to contemplate it some more – anything to distract him from the pain in his side – but found himself being shaken slightly only a few seconds later.  
"Strider? Come now, stay awake!"

Aragorn pried his eyelids open once more; just when had he closed them, he didn't know. Amlaith's face was swimming in and out of focus in front of him, and behind the other ranger he could – in a moment of perfect, almost startling clarity – see the last orcs rush past their hideout, snarling at each others and their pursuers. They were being followed by tall, dark-haired figures, who abandoned the pursuit quickly enough, though. Night had fallen by now, and it wasn't a very good idea to pursue a numerically superior enemy whose night vision was so much better into the dark woods.

"'m all right," he said, or rather mumbled. It didn't sound as impressive and decisive as it should have, and so he wasn't surprised to see Amlaith raise an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Oh, of course you are," the other ranger said sarcastically. "You are a right picture of health."

"Have you seen Ciryon or one of the others?" Aragorn asked, ignoring his words. 

If he had been more lucid and in less pain, he would have noticed the brief exchange of looks between the other two rangers. The way things were, he was barely able to make out their faces in the gathering gloom that had nothing at all to do with nightfall.

"No," Amlaith said and shook his head quickly. "But we will find them. All you have to do is stay awake for now, Strider. The Valar know how he did it, but Ereneth found your elven friends. Do be so kind as to stay awake until they reach us, because I really do not feel any inclination at all to try and explain all this to them. I have the feeling that they will not receive such news very graciously."

Aragorn was a fair enough man to see that the other had a valid point, and so he did his best, he really did. It took some more minutes for the fighting to die down completely, but soon all he could hear were rangers calling to one another, trying to locate each other after the battle had separated them. In what seemed like no time at all, Aragorn could see two tall shapes stride towards their hiding place, faint moonlight illuminating their fair faces as if it was drawn to them. Aragorn smiled wanly at them as they pushed their way through the brush, wondering briefly where they'd left Celylith and Elrohir.

Then, as a matter of self-defence, he lost consciousness.  
**  
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By the time they reached the camp, everybody seemed to know everything about what had happened. Legolas had never understood how these things worked; surely the men, when returning home with wounded comrades, had better things to do – for example, care for said comrades – than to give each other blow-by-blow accounts of what had happened? Fact was, however, that rumours travelled fast, and as soon as they had passed the guards posted at the west entrance of the camp, every ranger they saw gave them knowing and – if he was completely honest – rather admiring looks.

It was a definite improvement to a few hours ago, when the looks directed at them by the orcs could only be called murderous. He was in far too preoccupied a mood to pay them much heed anyway; they could have been dancing naked around a campfire preparing to sacrifice a virgin maiden as soon as the _Valacirca_ shone at their brightest for all he cared.

Legolas ignored the now openly interested looks being given them – it seemed that even the Rangers couldn't keep on pretending not to be interested at such a time – and followed the twins' horses, feeling Celylith's eyes boring little holes into his back. He knew that his friend wanted answers, just like he did, but, by Oromë's horn, he had none to give him. His afternoon that had been spent quite pleasantly (if one ignored the fact that he had been mulling over what Aragorn had told him for most of the time and had become quite irritable towards the end) had turned into, literally, a bloodbath, and he had no idea why.

All he knew was that they had been close to the road, chatting more or less amiably with the rangers they had met on their way back to camp and who were to relieve the two brothers stationed by the creek. Commander Cemendur, who had been making his rounds in this sector, had arrived a few minutes later. Haldar had been with him, together with two of the younger rangers who were clearly not being trusted to ride alone. They had just decided to ride back together when the taller of said brothers had come galloping down the road, making enough noise to wake a hibernating bear. The young human had barely paused to gasp out something about _orcs_ and _now_ and _tracks_ before turning his horse around, clearly trusting them to follow him.

And of course they had, first believing that they might be dealing with some stragglers that had got lost on their way to their holes, even though that would have been strange, this deep in the Angle. The Rangers usually kept close watch on their borders, and no horde of orcs – especially not one as big as Ereneth had claimed his brother and he had found the tracks of – would be able to get past their sentries. It was something the commander had told them often and insistently, right up to the point when they had all but stumbled over what looked like half of the orc population of the Misty Mountains.

_That_ was something they hadn't counted on. Something else they hadn't counted on was finding Aragorn in the middle of this whole, colossal mess along with his companion, the young ranger who had arrived a few days ago. What _hadn't_ surprised them overly much had been the fact that he had managed to be injured, _ again_. Legolas would in fact have been astonished had the ranger been in one piece.

His dark thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Rashwe neighing softly in protest as he had to swerve to avoid Elrohir's horse, and he realised that the twins had stopped. From the moment they had pushed their way through the brush and found Estel with the other two rangers – unconscious, of course -, the twins hadn't left his side. Elladan had picked him up without saying a word, leaving it to him to say something to the other humans. Elladan had, in fact, said nothing since that moment. He had waited impatiently for Elrohir and the commander to proclaim their surroundings reasonably safe, all the while not letting go of the young ranger. Nor had he on the ride back.

Elrohir had dismounted and was holding onto his twin's reins to allow him to dismount safely, and Legolas found himself getting off his mount without even thinking about what he was doing. All he could do was stare at the limp hand that was about the only thing that could be seen of his human friend; Elladan had wrapped his cloak tightly around Aragorn in a probably vain attempt to keep him warm and prevent him from going into shock. Legolas snorted, feeling particularly cynical all of the sudden. "Probably" was a very nice word. Nice – and overly optimistic. Aragorn had lost far too much blood not to go into shock, even he knew that.

The elven prince startled suddenly when a long, slender hand appeared in his field of vision and took Rashwe's reins from him. Legolas looked up to find Celylith smiling at him. It was a wan smile and looked more than a little forced, but it was there, and he suddenly realised that Celylith was alive and so were Aragorn and the twins. They were all alive, and that was a whole lot more than what could be said about Ciryon and his men.

"Let me take him," the silver-haired elf said, his fingers closing somewhat gingerly around the long straps of leather. Rashwe inclined his head and looked straight at the wood-elf, definite menace in his eyes, before he tossed his head in a manner that clearly suggested that biting off Celylith's hand clearly wasn't worth his while and that he wasn't even worthy being terrorised. "I think he's had enough fun trampling orcs to want to eat me."

Legolas had to smile as well, no matter how dark his mood. They had dismounted as soon as they had realised what was going on on the road in front of them and had taken to the trees, but elven mounts were trained for combat. Those orcs that had run down the road instead of up had found themselves faced with four elven horses that had been more than happy to demonstrate to them that they held about as much affection for the orcish race as their masters.

"You are an optimistic person," Legolas said, but nodded at the other elf to take the horse. "How you managed to stay that way after spending so much time with the twins, I will never know."

Celylith wisely refrained from pointing out that Legolas himself was hardly better when it came to getting oneself involved in bloodshed, mayhem and terror and simply inclined his head.

"We are all alive," he said, mirroring Legolas' earlier thoughts. His eyes flickered over to the left, where Elrohir and Elladan were just disappearing inside their tent with their precious burden. "Go with them. I will join you as soon as I can."

He turned away and followed one of the young recruits who had miraculously managed to come out of the battle unscathed. Legolas watched him go for a second before he followed the twins, and arrived just in time to watch Elladan ignite the two lamps that they had. Elrohir was crouching next to their packs, clearly looking for one of the many bags of healing supplies that their father had given them. In the far corner that the faint light coming from the half-opened tent flap could not reach, Legolas could make out the dark, motionless shape of his human friend.

Elladan swore as the wick refused to catch fire and instead slipped through his fingers and slid into the oil, and Elrohir admonished him without even turning his head.  
"Calm down, Elladan. You stopped the bleeding. Estel will be fine."

Legolas felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He had more or less come to the same conclusion, but he was no healer, and in moments such as this one he was painfully aware of that fact. To hear one of the twins actually say it out loud was such a great relief that he almost would have faltered.

Elladan, however, wasn't nearly as easily pacified as the fair-haired elf, but he waited until he had successfully lit the oil lamp before he whirled around, lamp in hand.  
"What was he doing there, Elrohir? What in the name of all that is holy was he _doing_ there? Sometimes I think the boy has a death wish, I really do!"

"You're exaggerating," Elrohir told him calmly as he thoughtlessly dumped a clean shirt onto the ground and kept on searching. "And I don't know what happened. We should ask one of the others."

"Oh, yes, one of them," Elladan almost spat. "That sounds like a very good idea. I've been meaning to have some words with them. They are doing such a wonderful job keeping their chieftain safe that someone should commend them, wouldn't you agree?"

Legolas decided that the two of them would hardly notice him even if he started swinging upside down from the ceiling (which, considering that they were inside a tent, would probably pose a problem or two). Sons of Elrond – or rather children of Elrond, for as far as he knew Lady Arwen was not that different from her brothers – weren't exactly known for being completely level-headed and sweet-natured, and once they were involved in an altercation, it was quite hard to distract them.

"Now, do be fair," Elrohir said, quite oblivious to the fact that Legolas was crossing the tent and kneeling down next to the motionless ranger. "They don't even know that he _is_ their chieftain. And if I know him at all, he bribed the one he was with to make him accompany him."

Elladan, however, was quite unwilling to be fair, or reasonable for that matter. Long minutes full of paralysing fear and panic had transformed into a dark rage that needed an outlet, and arguing with his brother about things they really agreed on was just what he needed. Legolas listened patiently to the two of them as he slowly unfolded the long grey cloak Aragorn had been wrapped in. The man stirred but did not wake, just like the twins didn't seem to notice that he was in the tent with them. He then stood up and fetched the lamp that Elladan wasn't waving around like a maniac – if the older twin set this tent aflame, he would _not_ be the one to put out the fire, he thought absently –, positioned it so that it illuminated Aragorn's long, completely lax form, peeled back the blood-encrusted shirt, had a look at the makeshift bandage, decided that it would have to be removed and the wound thoroughly washed, and finally sat back on his haunches and gave the two dark-haired elves a look of such venom that even his father would have been very impressed.

"If you don't mind," he said icily, "I would ask you to take your squabbling outside. I am trying to keep him from bleeding to death, and I would like some peace and quite while doing it."

The twins stopped as if they were puppets and someone had cut their strings. Legolas was exaggerating, of course – Aragorn wasn't bleeding to death and all of them knew it – but that didn't change all that much. Their little brother was lying unconscious on a pallet on the ground, and all they were doing was argue about something about which they didn't even disagree.

Elladan shot both of them a dark look – how nice it was to be included in their conversation at last, Legolas thought ironically – and stalked over to where Aragorn lay, an expression on his face that would have scared the most battle-hardened orc. Legolas, who as the son of King Thranduil was made of incomparably harder stuff, merely glared back at him but readily abandoned his place, knowing that both of the twins were far better trained to deal with Aragorn's injury.

It didn't take the twins very long to take care of the wound. Even despite his annoyance Legolas couldn't help but sit back and admire the way the two of them worked together while they forced some sort of potion down the unconscious man's throat and cleaned and stitched the wound closed. They had done this often enough, after all, and the special bond that they shared made it appear as if they actually thought and acted as one person. It was quite an ugly wound, not so very deep but large and ragged and in need of a lot of stitches, but it didn't seem to present the two of them with a lot of problems.

To Legolas, who had been watching, entranced, it seemed as if no time at all had passed when Elrohir started putting away the unused healing supplies and Elladan pulled one of their blankets gently up to the unconscious man's chin. That that impression was an illusion was swiftly made clear as the tent flaps were pushed open without any kind of warning and Captain Daervagor entered the tent, an expression on his face that made his usually already solemn visage look friendly and engaging in comparison. Commander Cemendur was with him, and so was Haldar, and Legolas realised with a start just how much time must have passed. The commander and Haldar had remained behind with Ereneth and his brother to make sure the orcs had really retreated and to bring home the bodies of Ciryon and his men, and if they were back already, then they must have been here quite a long time indeed.

Daervagor, not someone to mince words, got straight to the point.  
"What in Elbereth's name happened?"

"Will he be all right, my lords?" Haldar added, for once not caring if he interrupted his captain or not. He even forsook Ranger calmness and composure and tried to look over the commander's shoulder. "He lost a lot of blood."

"If the wound doesn't get infected, he should be fine," Elladan said, not looking up from where he was tucking the blanket more closely around his human brother's body. It was a typical, hot July night, but still the man was shivering. "It doesn't look as if there is any poison at work, thank the Valar. If he sleeps undisturbed and wakes up before noon, everything should be all right."

Haldar visibly relaxed and closed his eyes for a second, the guilt on his face lessening slightly. The man wasn't responsible for what had happened any more than they were, and Legolas forgot the rest of the resentment he still harboured towards him. There weren't many people he would trust with the lives of those he loved, but if it came to trusting someone in this camp with Aragorn's life, Haldar was the one.

"What happened?" Daervagor repeated, even though he, too, looked faintly relieved at the news.

Legolas, who had been asked that question far too many times already tonight, would have liked to snap at the captain, and so he was profoundly grateful that Elrohir straightened up from where he had been putting away the remaining supplies and answered the ranger. Eru alone knew what Elladan would have said.

"We know no more than you do, my friend," he said, giving Daervagor a small, tired, and not very genuine smile. "The only one who could answer that question is the one who accompanied him."

Daervagor seemed to agree, for he turned and looked at Haldar.  
"Amlaith, wasn't it? Where is he?"

"He is having his arm set, sir," Haldar answered. "One of the healers was just about to return to the village when the first men arrived here. She's still here and looking after the wounded."

"Wounded?" Elrohir asked, noticing to his shame that this was the first time he had asked – or even cared – how the rangers had fared. He had ridden with these people for hundreds of years, but if it was his brother lying bleeding in front of him everything else paled into insignificance. "How many are there?"

"Amlaith broke his arm," Cemendur began. "Hasteth – the healer from the village," he added as a matter of explanation, "knows what she is doing, so he should be all right. Otherwise there are a few cuts, if we are lucky not poisoned ones, one stab wound to the thigh and one arrow wound where a shaft clipped someone's shoulder. That one might be poisoned, but it looks as if we administered the antidote in time. Unless they used a completely different kind of poison that we have never come across, that wound should heal, too. We got off lightly."

"We surprised them." Elladan shook his head. "If they'd stopped to think about it, we would all be dead."

"A very interesting observation, my lord," Daervagor said with a smile that could have chilled a snow-troll's blood. "Haldar, please bring Amlaith here if he is able. We have some questions that need answers. Cemendur, if you would be so kind to try and locate Hírgaer and his brother? We have to know where these orcs came from, and we cannot send out anybody until dawn. They might know something."

No matter how much the two of them would have liked to stay, they weren't willing to risk crossing their superior when he was this dangerously quiet and composed. In less than five seconds they had mumbled some words of assent, had bowed their heads and were gone, looks of mixed relief and reluctance on their faces. Daervagor waited patiently until their steps had faded, head cocked slightly to the side, before he returned his attention to the three elves in front of him.

"So," he said. "Orcs."

"Not very surprisingly, yes." Elrohir nodded. "How they could have remained hidden from you – and from us – I do not know, however."

"Yet another good question, and one I will come back to," Daervagor told him. "But there is something else on my mind. How did he get there? Or rather, _why_ did he?"

"We don't know any more than you do," the younger twin said. "In fact, you know probably more than us. I assume you already talked to the two who found the orcs' trail?"

"Ereneth and Hírgaer, yes." Daervagor inclined his head. "Briefly, that is. But neither of them knew how … Estel … and Amlaith managed to find their way into this catastrophe when they should have been more than a league to the south."

"And neither do we."

"Please, my friend," the captain said and shook his head. "I lost three men this evening, three men I knew, whose families I know. I have neither the energy nor the patience for subterfuge."

"We understand that," Elrohir said softly. "_I_ understand that, Daervagor. But there is also something you must understand. You are still loyal to Arathorn, even though he has been dead for over twenty years. Dedication like that is commendable, and I honour you for it, for he was a good man and a friend of mine, too. You are loyal to his son because of it, no matter what happened between the two of you."

"Nothing happened." Daervagor shook his head flatly.

"Of course not." Elrohir smiled at him in the same way he would have smiled at a child holding a sweetmeat and swearing that it had just flown into his hand. "It is no business of ours, as both Estel and you have told us countless times."

"But the thing you have to understand," Elladan spoke up, neatly picking up his brother's train of thought where he'd left it, "is that our loyalty lies with our lord and our home first. Rivendell and family, Daervagor – all members of our family, and that includes Estel just as it includes our sister or our grandparents. We have ridden with you for centuries – have ridden with you personally more times than I can count –, but Estel is our brother. He is family."

"I understand that," Daervagor said. "I might not have agreed with what led up to that, but I understand family. Believe me, my lord, I do. But Ciryon is dead, and so are Araphor and young Ferneth. I just had to tell Serothlain that his best friend is dead, and the look on his face when he truly understood what I was telling him is something that I will never forget as long as I live. So let me be blunt: I want some answers. Now."

Elladan exchanged a quick look with his twin, then shrugged and turned back to Aragorn. Elrohir sighed and quietly began to tell the man about the dreams and about what they had pieced together so far. It didn't take long to recount, and when he was finished, Daervagor was standing as still as a stone pillar. His face was hidden by the flickering shadows that the second oil lamp cast, and his voice was flat and emotionless when he finally spoke.

"Three weeks. This has been going on for three weeks and you did not tell me?"

Elrohir directed a flinty look at the general area where Daervagor's head probably was which clearly suggested that he hadn't listened to a single word he'd been saying.  
"Yes."

"I see."

There it was again, the cold, thinly veiled anger and black temper Legolas had come to associate with the dark-haired captain. The wood-elf felt almost relieved.

"I don't think you do," he said, taking part in this conversation for the first time. "It doesn't really matter why Estel was there. It doesn't matter if he saw what happened, or dreamed it or if he was told about it by some fluffy, speaking rabbit. It will, of course, but right now it doesn't. What really matters now is where those orcs came from, and how in the name of the One they managed to get this far into the Angle without being seen."

"You are right, my lord." One could almost hear how the captain had to unclench his teeth to get the words out. "A few hours ago I would have said that it was impossible."

"A few hours ago, I would have agreed," Elladan said.

"Well," Legolas began, looking at Aragorn's shadowed face, "I know a few reasons that speak against that. About four or five dozen, I believe."

"More," Elrohir said glumly. "It was hard to count in the darkness, but I think there were more. As Elladan said: Had they realised how badly outnumbered we were, they would have easily overwhelmed us."

It was silent for a few seconds before Daervagor began to nod his head, his voice still sounding unconcerned and very cool.

"Yes," he said slowly. "That are a lot of reasons." He turned slightly to look at the twins. "We should do something about that, wouldn't you agree?"

The twins looked at each other before identical, cold smiles spread over their faces, and for the first time he could remember Legolas found himself wholeheartedly agreeing with something Daervagor had said.

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_tarks (Black Speech) - Men of Gondor/of Númenórean heritage  
orch (Sindarin) - orc, goblin  
Valacirca (Quenya) - the 'Sickle of the Valar', the constellation Ursa Maior, today known as the Great Bear/Big Dipper/Plough _

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Poor Aragorn. How many times have I already said something like that? •scratches head• Too many to count, I guess. So, now things are beginning to get interesting, because the Master isn't really happy at the moment, and neither are the Rangers. Oh, and the elves aren't too happy either. That can't really end well, now can it? •g• So, stay tuned for the next chapter, where we'll have the quiet Aragorn-twins moment that I promised someone. Oh, and lots of angst and other enjoyable stuff like that. Reviews are, as always, cherished, loved and appreciated. •g•**

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**Additional A/N:**

Many apologies to Tatsumaki-sama, Sica, Firniswin and Clone Trooper. I usually reply to reviews via big group emails, so if you wish to be included in those, don't forget to sign in before reviewing (and then to have a working email address listed on your profile page), or, if you prefer to review anonymously, to mention an email address. Thanks a lot and sorry for the inconvenience this might cause!


	16. Taken Into Account

** Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

Gods, the weather has been absolutely, completely horrid - and I've spent a few summers in England already and am used to it! It's so terrible that there are huge floods, although fortunately not around here. Here it's only wet and grey and miserable. I actually saw the sun today, which is a definite improvement. That makes a great total of four times since I've arrived. •grimaces• Nah, I'm just kidding, but it's almost as bad. It IS getting better.

All right, all right, I'll stop whining. If someone had the right to whine here, it would most certainly be Aragorn - or all those unfortunate elves that someone got involved with him. •g• It's really nice to see that so many of you like Skagrosh, btw. I really quite like him myself! He's a very straightforward character, after all, even though he's in a bit of a pickle at the moment. He's not looking forward for Chapter 17, I can tell you that much.

Okay, after this surprisingly short A/N we go straight to Chapter 16, in which Aragorn would have a reason to whine (and so would the twins), only that they're too manly (or elvish) to actually do it. Well, Elrohir whines a little, I guess. Apart from that, he asks several questions that we've all asked ourselves at least once, Aragorn gets a bit of (not very surprising) bad news, our two wood-elves have a nice little conversation with Halbarad and Haldar (who's given up on trying to understand the Elves), and we meet Serothlain's fiancée. Oh, and Legolas proves that, no matter how sneaky you are, you just can't hide a bat in a bag. Silly of Celylith to try, really. •g•

As always, enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 16

In his experience, there was almost always some confusion or disorientation involved when waking from unconsciousness. Mind you, that could also be because, in his case, waking from an unconscious state often involved finding himself chained to a wall or hanging upside down from the ceiling or being dunked into a river, so he might not exactly be a representative example.

For fairness' sake, he had to admit that he also frequently woke up to see his father's disapproving face, but that was often not a whole lot better.

This time proved to be different. He awoke slowly, drifting upward towards consciousness in a soft, gentle manner. It was … nice, and so he was in no hurry to speed up the process. For uncounted minutes he floated in comfortable nothingness, and when he continued to drift even closer to that half-dreaded point of waking up, he wasn't sure what to make of it. He couldn't remember much of what had happened to him and why he was, once again, doing his own personal impression of a feather floating in the wind, but he was quite sure that whatever the reason had been, it hadn't been pleasant and that he probably didn't want to know.

He almost never wanted to know.

As so often, he wasn't given a choice. No matter how much he tried to hold on to this nice, peaceful and, most importantly, pain-free state, he slowly found himself becoming aware of his surroundings. His body was completely numb, feeling remotely like a slab of granite that someone had left on top of Caradhras for an age or two, but he suspected that that was a good thing. He could smell wood smoke, however, and something that smelled almost like the wild boar with rosemary and thyme that Elrohir would make when you begged him long enough.

There was some sort of fluttering sound in the air, sounding as if some length of fabric flapped again and again against something hard, and there was also the faint sound of exuberant birdsong to be heard, which was really strange because that would mean that it was morning and…

And it shouldn't be morning because the last thing he remembered was pain and fear and mindless panic and the starless sky.

Some sort of instinct made him surge upwards from the comfortable bedding, forcing his numb, stiff body into compliance. He couldn't really remember all of what had happened, but if the last things he _did_ remember were anything to go by, there was a good chance that he would find himself bound to a stake on top of an anthill, covered with honey. That would contrast somewhat with the soft bedding, but it wouldn't surprise him in the slightest because that was just the sort of thing that kept on happening to him.

He never got very far, however. His body decided that enough was enough and that being as numb as a slab of granite was nice for a while, but really no long-term perspective. Before his eyes had even adjusted to the light and he had had a chance to clearly see his surroundings, his vision clouded over as pain shot through him. His head swam with it, and he would have faltered and fallen forward and onto his face if someone hadn't caught him. Someone did, however, and a strong arm slung around his shoulder and held him up, taking almost all of his weight.

By now he was quite sure that he wasn't bound to a stake on top of an anthill, but that didn't mean all that much. Even despite the fact that a small dragon seemed to have taken up residence in his abdomen and was now busy breathing fire onto everything it could reach, he lashed out with an arm, but his blow (that was more like a half-hearted wave anyway) was intercepted by someone's hand that gently but firmly closed around his wrist and pushed it back down.

"Shh, Estel … calm down, or you will tear Elrohir's stitches…"

The words made about as much sense to Aragorn as an aria sung in the Black Speech would have. The agony seemed to grow stronger with every breath he took, and he screwed his eyes tightly shut as the waves of pain pulsed through him.

"Come now, _muindor dithen_," the voice spoke up again. "Take a deep breath, that will help. I know it hurts, but you have to stop moving. Breathe in … out … in…"

"I'm … not … pregnant … Elladan…" Aragorn ground out when the pain became somewhat manageable.

"Really?" Elladan asked, the joke sounding rather forced. "It must be all the honey cakes, then."

Aragorn ignored the elf's words, lifted his head and opened his eyes, but the bright light stabbed through his brain in the same way that a pair of razor-sharp daggers would have and he closed them again. He couldn't quite suppress a faint moan as that new pain joined the only slowly receding agony in his side, and his fingers closed reflexively around his brother's forearm.

"Where … are…?"

"In the Ranger camp," Elladan answered quickly. "You are safe, and so are Amlaith and the other one … Hírgaer. Be calm."

He gave his human brother a worried look that he knew he would not see. If not for his arm around his shoulders, the man would have fallen forward, that much was clear. His face was almost as white as the bandage that covered most of his torso, making his dark hair look positively black. Only a little blood showed on the white linen, but judging by the way the man sat hunched over, swaying from side to side, it would be only a matter of time before those spots grew larger. It was quite clear that he didn't intend to be calm about anything.

"What … what happened?" the young ranger asked, voice was pressed and flat as he tried to gather his breath.

"You were attacked by orcs," Elladan said, eyeing him worriedly. He gave Aragorn about twenty seconds before he would fall face-first into the tent wall to their left. And if that happened, the tent would probably collapse and trap the two of them, and that would be very embarrassing. The Rangers were a very polite, subtle people, but even they would be unable to resist rubbing this into their faces for the rest of their natural lives. "And then you got hurt, naturally. Now lie back before you tear Elrohir's stitches and undo all our careful work."

"Orcs?" Aragorn asked in confusion. His eyes were open now, but there was as much pain as comprehension in them. His grip tightened as the fear and alarm inside of him rose to a new level. "Orcs?"

"Yes, orcs," Elladan said patiently. "I am not one of them, as you may notice. Now get your claws out of my arm and _lie back_."

He gently disentangled his arm and pushed the young man back, and the fact that Aragorn allowed himself to be pushed back down was a testament to how much pain he was really in. When Elladan was convinced that he was resting as comfortably as possible, he got up, fetched the cup of water standing on the little wooden table and returned to the sleep pallet on which his human brother was resting. The man's ashen colour slowly improved after he had drunk his fill, even though it still closely resembled that of dirty grey snow.

"Better?" the older twin asked, lightly resting the back of his hand on the man's forehead. There was no unnatural heat there, even though it was a little clammy, and Elladan breathed a sigh of relief. No fever. That was the first truly good news he had received in some time. "Do you want something for the pain?"

He could have spared himself the question. Even despite the pain still pulsing through his skull, Aragorn shook his head, emphatically rejecting his offer.  
"No … I'll be … all right…"

Elladan gave him an openly sceptical look but accepted his words, and waited for several seconds before he asked, "Are you going to pass out again?"

Aragorn shot him a bemused look.  
"I don't think so. Why would I?"

"You probably don't remember, but you woke up before," Elladan explained, his suddenly nonchalant tone unable to disguise the worry in his voice. "You weren't awake very long."

He conveniently forgot to mention that Aragorn had been half out of his mind, unable to recognise them or accept that they were no orcs and not about to kill him. He had been talking about things none of them had understood, and had scared all of them so profoundly that he had only half an hour ago managed to convince Legolas and Celylith to go and take a little rest. Elrohir he had expelled from the tent at the same time, and only because he had threatened him with exposing several of their more interesting transgressions of the last few decades to their father. That would have meant exposing himself as well and both of them knew it, but it was the gesture that counted. Elrohir had gone because he had known he was right and because he knew how much it meant to him. He would tell Aragorn about all that later, when he was a little stronger and more lucid. Or maybe never.

Aragorn was spared an answer by the arrival of Elrohir, who chose this moment to poke his head into the tent. The smile that spread over his face at the sight of his little brother awake and apparently more or less lucid seemed to light up his entire face, and Aragorn couldn't help but smile back. It was a weak, wobbly thing, but it was meant wholeheartedly.

"Awake, is he?" Elrohir asked, addressing his twin. He apparently still doubted that Aragorn was truly aware of what was going on around him. "And lucid?"

"So it would seem," Elladan answered, ignoring the glare Aragorn divided between the two of them. "There's only a bit of fresh bleeding, and I think I managed to get him to lie back down before he tore your stitches. If he did, however, it is no fault of mine. Oh, and there is no sign of a fever, so I think we can safely rule out any kind of poison."

Aragorn was only listening with one ear to what the two of them were saying, but his interest was piqued by the word "poison". He could have told them that; the scimitar hadn't looked or felt poisoned, and he'd had a good look at the weapon as it was pulled out of his side. That was a morbid thing to think, he was aware of that, just as he was aware of the fact that he probably couldn't have told them. Elladan might think that he was hiding his thoughts so very well, but Aragorn knew his brother well enough to know that his overt nonchalance hid his worry. He really couldn't remember having woken before now, but judging by the look on Elladan's face, he had probably been close to hallucinating.

"So he is not going to pass out again?" Elrohir asked, directing a searching look at Aragorn as if expecting him to keel over any second now. How was he supposed to do that, Aragorn asked himself sourly. He was already lying on the ground!

"No, _he _is not," the young ranger said, his voice still weak and somewhat hoarse. "Why is everybody asking me that?"

"Good," Elrohir said calmly, crossing the distance between them and crouching down next to his twin. "How do you feel, Estel?"

"Weak," Aragorn answered truthfully. "Confused. And my head hurts."

"I hope your side hurts, too," the younger twin said. "I spent half an hour putting stitches in it."

"Now that you mention it." The man shrugged as well as someone lying down and with their torso wrapped in several feet of bandages could. "A little, yes."

"Good," Elrohir said again, smiling at him. "Do you need anything for the pain?"

Aragorn looked from one twin to the other, suspicion on his face. This was beginning to become scary. The pain in his side faded slightly as he tried to figure out what was going on here.  
"No, thank you."

"Good." Aragorn was beginning to suspect that Elrohir's vocabulary had shrunk considerably since he had lost consciousness. "Well," the younger twin went on, looking at Elladan, "Shall I say it or do you want to?"

"Oh, no." Elladan waved his hand magnanimously. "I have calmed down by now. Please, go ahead."

"Thank you." Elrohir smiled at his twin before he turned back to their bemused human brother, eyebrows drawing tightly together. "What in the name of Eru himself is wrong with you, Estel? Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?"

"Well," Aragorn began after several seconds of staring, perplexed, at the twins, "I…"

"You don't think before you act!" Elrohir accused him, glaring at him in a way that made him look very much like Elrond. "I never thought I would actually have to say this to a member of my family, but do you have a death wish?"

"Well," Aragorn tried again, even though he knew that Elrohir wasn't even hearing him. Saying something to him now, when he was in this kind of mood, was roughly equivalent to waving a stick at an advancing balrog and yelling at it to go away. "It isn't exactly…"

"We talked to Amlaith, Estel," Elladan chimed in, recognising the need to defuse the situation. He was fully aware of the fact that normally _he_ was the one to lose his temper – something that he truly did far more often than his twin. But when Elrohir got angry, it was best to get out of his way and find some cover. He was a lot like their father in this respect. "He told us that you … well, just told him that Ciryon was in danger and persuaded him to accompany you."

"Oh, _and_ that you refused to return to the camp to get reinforcements," Elrohir added acidly, grey eyes almost black with anger. Elladan frowned. This wasn't exactly what he had meant. "What were you _thinking_, Estel?! I know that you don't have any experience with this, but I really would have thought that we taught you better. If Erestor and Glorfindel ever hear about this, I will not be the one to pry them off your quickly cooling body."

Aragorn grimaced and closed his eyes. Erestor and Glorfindel had done their best to teach him tactics and strategy, and if they heard about his little … miscalculation … he would be done for. If his father didn't kill him, the two of them would. In a tactically and strategically sound manner, of course.

"Elrohir," Elladan said, putting as much calm reassurance into his voice as he could. "Calm down."

"I have no intention of calming down, Elladan!" his twin told him savagely. "Have you not been listening to us, Estel? Have you heard nothing we have been trying to tell you these past weeks?"

"I heard you, Elrohir." Aragorn opened his eyes again and gave him a _look_ that would have impressed the younger twin if he hadn't been in such an agitated state of mind. "When I wasn't being lied to or too tired to notice anything that went on around me, I heard you very well."

"We never lied to you." The look on Elladan's face was a mixture of disbelief, hurt and faint anger.

"It took _ada_ almost two days to tell me about what Haldar had told him, or even _about_ him!" Aragorn looked at him indignantly and tried to push himself up onto his elbows, but Elladan absently placed a hand on his bandaged chest and pushed him back down. "If I hadn't cornered him, he wouldn't have told me anything at all! And you two didn't exactly try very hard to tell me the truth either!"

"We may not have told you everything," Elrohir admitted, looking somewhat confused as some of his earlier indignation evaporated. "But we never lied to you. That's a difference."

Aragorn only _looked _at him.  
"A difference that makes no difference is no difference."

The two elves looked at each other, opened their mouths, and closed them again at exactly the same time. Aragorn felt too annoyed – and, if he was honest, also too ashamed – to be properly impressed by this. He might have been able to divert his brothers for a second or two, but they were right, and there was no doubt about it.

"Well," Elrohir finally said reluctantly. "You may have a point there. But we never _lied _to you, nor did we mean to. It wasn't our place to tell you, it was _ada's_. We could not tell you about something Haldar had told him in private and in confidence."

Aragorn knew that, of course. The twins were nothing if not respectful towards their father and lord, and to share with someone what Elrond had told them in private – even if it concerned him – would never cross their minds. Still, he was not prepared to let this go just like that, and since it looked as if he would not lose consciousness again in the next few minutes – which was a very positive development in his opinion – he slowly made another attempt to prop himself up. Elladan immediately reached out to stop him, but Aragorn batted his hand away.

"No, I have to sit up," he said, carefully balancing his weight on his elbows and trying to ignore the way his side and still weakened left forearm protested against the movement. "I can't talk to you like this, especially if it's going to be one of _those_ conversations."

Elladan reluctantly helped prop Aragorn up against two rolled-up blankets, and, when that wasn't enough to keep the weakened man upright, scooted closer to him and carefully pulled him backwards until he was resting against his legs. As soon as his human brother was settled, he shot Elrohir a dark look that very clearly spelled doom and pain for his immediate future if he didn't get his fear and anger under control. Elrohir glared back for a second, but, being the reasonable elf that he was, realised that his twin was right.

"I don't want it to be one of 'those' conversations, Estel," he said, his fair voice sounding as gruff as it ever did. "You … you scared us, _muindor dithen_. You scared us very much."

"I scared myself," Aragorn admitted, a small, insincere smile flittering over his pale features. The change of position brought new pain with it, and he had a hard time keeping it under control. "I … Valar, Elrohir, I was terrified."

"As you should have been," Elrohir said with some degree of satisfaction. "It pains me to say this, but if it hadn't been for Hírgaer and his brother, you and Amlaith would be dead."

"Oh, that's not it," Aragorn said, his voice wavering slightly. "And Amlaith is the one that would be dead, not me."

Elladan frowned and craned his neck to be able to look his youngest sibling in the eye.  
"What do you mean, Estel?"

Aragorn turned his head slightly and gave him a weak smile.  
"The orc in charge wanted one of us alive. When Hírgaer showed up, he had just decided to take me and kill Amlaith."

For a second, neither of the twins spoke or moved. If Aragorn hadn't been staring so resolutely at the canvas wall to his left, he would have noticed the brief look of unbridled horror that flittered over their faces. The silence that hung heavily over the small space stretched and grew, and in the end Aragorn couldn't stand it anymore.

"Did you manage to follow the orcs' trail? Considering how fast they were running, it would probably not have been very hard."

"Daervagor sent out some men this morning," Elladan explained. "Last night it would have been suicide. We had barely enough men to secure the scene, not to mention to follow orcs into a dark forest at night. The eyes of the Rangers are sharper than those of average men, but not even they are that keen-eyed. With a group of elves you could have done it, maybe, even though I would have hesitated to do it when so heavily outnumbered. There was nothing we could have done."

"Estel," Elrohir began, clearly unsure how to put this, "why did the orcs select you?"

Aragorn smiled wanly, something that looked more like a grimace especially in combination with his bloodless face and the blank expression in his eyes.  
"You mean were they looking for me?"

Elrohir nodded.  
"That question had crossed my mind, yes."

"No," the young man answered emotionlessly. "They picked me at random. They might just as well have decided to take Amlaith." He shivered. "It would be more fun, he said."

"Who?" Elladan asked. His voice was so low that it was barely audible, and even the most battle-hardened elven warrior would have taken it as a sign that it was time to vacate the vicinity immediately, preferably at a run.

"The leader," Aragorn said, his voice still expressionless. He might as well have been discussing the weather. "He was taller than the others. The rest looked more like the orcs you can find in the Misty Mountains, but his skin was darker. One of the others told him to take Amlaith because he was not as badly wounded, but he said it would be more fun taking me."

Neither of the twins said anything, their jaws working silently as they tried to get their fury under control. It was Elrohir who mastered his emotions first, even though his eyes were still dark with anger and undisguised menace.

"Did you overhear anything that might be useful? Anything that would tell us why they would want one of you alive?"

"Not just one of us." Aragorn shook his head. "A ranger. The leader, more specifically. They didn't know which one of us the leader was, so they picked me at random."

"But why, Estel?" Elladan asked. "Why go through all this trouble? They obviously weren't after captives, otherwise they wouldn't have wanted to kill Amlaith. If they had wanted you for … sport, they would have taken you and left. This doesn't make sense. Orcs don't take rangers captive if not for sport. It's just not done."

"The 'Master' ordered it," Aragorn said quietly.

Aragorn could literally see Elrohir's breath hitch.  
"The Master?" he repeated. "You don't mean…?"

"I don't know, Elrohir." Aragorn shook his head. "I don't know. The leader just said that it was the Master's orders to bring one of us alive. I don't know who he is, or where he is, or if he even exists."

"Oh, he has to exist," Elladan said. His voice sounded calm, far too calm. When Elladan sounded this cool and composed, he was only one step away from exploding. "If he didn't, the orcs wouldn't have bothered with any of this. It was too organised, too coordinated, too sophisticated. It's against their nature."

"Remind me to thank Hírgaer," Elrohir said, a mixture of slow-burning anger and deep relief in his voice. "And Ereneth as well. We are all in their debt. If they hadn't stumbled over the orcs' trail…"

"Yes," Elladan said quietly, but there was less relief and more suspicion in his voice. "I have been meaning to talk to them about that as well. I still have some questions that have not been answered last night."

Elrohir shot him a mildly disapproving look, but Aragorn didn't seem to notice. 

"Hírgaer," he asked, sounding ashamed that it had only now occurred to him to ask about the other rangers. "Is he all right? You are right, without him…"

"He's fine," Elrohir hurried to reassure him. "A few bruises, a few cuts, but nothing serious. He's looking as inscrutable as always, even though I must say he seemed rather repentant while his brother yelled at him for a good five minutes for endangering himself like that." He gave Aragorn a sly look. "Unlike someone else I could name."

"Ah, well." Aragorn grimaced. "His brother is quite a bit taller than him."

"So are we," Elladan said, mock indignation in his voice. "And still I did not see you look repentant."

"Ereneth is a good three inches taller than his brother," Aragorn argued. "That could be the reason. Or he is a much better actor than me, something that, somehow, I have no trouble imagining." He fell silent before he raised his eyes hesitantly to look at Elrohir. "What about … the others?"

The silence was even longer this time. Elladan wouldn't even have needed to say anything, but was too responsible an elf to remain silent. He didn't really know how, but he was sure that all this was somehow his fault. If Elrohir and he had only insisted on accompanying Aragorn, none of this might have happened.

Considering their luck, it would have happened – or something even worse would have, because that was just the kind of thing that the Valar apparently enjoyed –, but that was entirely beside the point.

"Amlaith is fine," he finally said, his voice as hesitant as his brother's. "He broke his left arm – unfortunately his sword arm – but it has been set and he seems to be doing well. There are a few minor injuries among Commander Cemendur's men, but nothing serious."

Aragorn nodded his head mutely, wishing that he didn't feel quite so weak. That – and the pain, of course – made it hard to concentrate and even harder to keep his emotions under control.

"And Ciryon?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.

Elladan only shook his head.  
"I am so sorry, Estel."

"We found him and his men," Elrohir added when Aragorn only stared sightlessly at the white canvas at the far side of the tent. "There was nothing anyone could have done. It seems as if they were already dead when you and Amlaith arrived."

"It doesn't make any sense."

"Death seldom does," Elladan said softly.

"No." Aragorn shook his head, weakly trying to twist around to look his elven brother in the eye. Elladan made no move to help him, and with his strength slowly beginning to desert him once more, he quickly gave up. "No, I _saw_ it. I saw him die before it happened, before it could have happened."

The twins looked at each other over his head.  
"Amlaith told us about it," Elladan finally said. "He told us how you found his friend…"

"Baran," Aragorn cut in, his voice suddenly sharp. "His name was Baran."

"Baran," Elladan repeated obediently. "He told us how the two of you found Baran, and how you suddenly collapsed. And how you, after recovering from what looked like a seizure or something similar, told him that Ciryon was in danger."

"I wasn't asleep," the young ranger said, his eyes fixed on a distant point on the far side of the tent. "I saw him die, and I wasn't even asleep."

Elladan tightened his grip on his human brother, his heart clenching at his lost tone of voice.  
"We talked about this, Estel. We can discuss it once you have had a little more sleep, but it might very well be that that was your first vision in the strictest sense of the word."

"I don't care, Elladan!" Aragorn exclaimed. He had clearly barely listened to his brother. "It doesn't matter if it was a dream or a vision or a nightmare. I _saw_ him! It was several hours before he died. I came as soon as I could, and I would have gone alone if Amlaith had refused to accompany me. I couldn't come back here to get reinforcements, don't you see that? I knew that this was going to happen, I knew it because I had seen it, and what happened? I was too late."

"You did what you could, Estel," Elrohir said, reaching out and placing a hand on his forearm. "No one could blame you. No one _does_ blame you. You did what you could."

"It wasn't enough." Aragorn said sharply, screwing his eyes shut. "Not nearly enough. I should have saved him, him and his men. I have their blood on my hands. Why else would I have had that vision, if I wasn't meant to save them?"

"You couldn't have," Elladan said forcefully. "And you don't have anybody's blood on your hands. You cannot always change what is going to happen, Estel. You were too far away. You couldn't even have known whether it was a dream or not."

"But I did." Aragorn shook his head. Grief and pain were slowly beginning to weaken his control, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I knew it was no dream, I knew he was going to die, and yet I was too late."

"You did everything in your power to save them, Estel," Elrohir said, exchanging a helpless look with his twin. "No one could expect more."

"I do," Aragorn said, his voice almost inaudible. "I am their leader, Elrohir. What good am I to them, what good am I to anyone, if I can't even protect them when I'm forewarned?"

"That is not how these things work, _pen-neth_," Elladan told him. "Even if you had been with Ciryon at the time you had the vision, there is no guarantee that you could have changed his fate. That is the burden of these visions – that you never know if you can make a difference, or if you had it just in time to watch it come true, without being able to do anything about it."

"I don't want them," Aragorn said flatly. He shook his head, the first tears beginning to fall. "I never did. I cannot deal with this. I cannot watch people I know and care about die without being able to change it and remain sane. I simply cannot."

The twins looked at each other, helplessness written all over their faces, but Aragorn didn't notice. The tears he had been holding back for so long were coursing down his cheeks as he grieved for the men he hadn't been able to save, blurring his surroundings until they were no more but indistinct shadows.

It wasn't long until exhaustion and the weakness that blood loss always left in its wake overwhelmed him, and for once he didn't care if the beckoning darkness was unconsciousness or sleep, as long as it held no dreams.  
**  
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**  
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It was going to rain soon, and Legolas had never been gladder about it. The dark, angry-looking clouds were still a long distance away and would probably not reach this part of the Angle till tomorrow late afternoon or evening, but Legolas' eyes had no trouble seeing them. They were gathering in the east above the higher grounds and hills and therefore not even close to them yet, but no matter how happy he was about the relative coolness that rain promised, Legolas felt also oddly threatened, as if the clouds were the harbingers of some sort of elusive threat.

Legolas was too sensible and experienced an elf to dismiss this feeling outright, and after what had happened yesterday, he felt doubly on edge. Well, to be honest he had felt on edge ever since he had left Rivendell – only an idiot wouldn't when going on an expedition with Aragorn and the twins –, and the feeling had not abated in the slightest.

Today it wouldn't rain yet, however, and so there was nothing he could do but sit in front of the campfire, curse the heat, watch the twins' tent and worry. Well, worrying was in fact optional, but he just couldn't help himself. What else was he supposed to do, when he hadn't seen Aragorn since this morning before he had even awoken?

The twins said he would be fine. The twins, however, had strange notions about terms like "healthy", "all right", "fine" or, for that matter, "sane". He didn't think that they would use any of their rather inventive, peculiar interpretations of when you were going to be fine and when you weren't when it concerned Aragorn, but you could never be too careful. And the man had already woken up, that just _had _to be a good sign, he told himself firmly in order to banish the images that rose inside of him, imagines of Aragorn dying from some unnamed, mysterious disease or fever. That was one of the things he secretly dreaded: Losing the young ranger to some illness or ailment that his elven mind could hardly grasp, let alone understand.

The elven prince inwardly shook his head. If the twins said Aragorn would be fine, he would be. It was as easy as that. He would be fine. He would be fine. He would be…

"He will be fine, my lord," Celylith's soft voice commented next to him. "Stop fretting."

Legolas smiled to himself and scooted a bit to the left, allowing the other wood-elf to sit down next to him on the big fallen log that one of the rangers had dragged close to the fire. No more than the faint rustling of clothing could be heard as Celylith took a seat next to him, and Legolas turned to look at him. Celylith looked better than yesterday, not as tired and exhausted anymore, but the light that his body emitted – barely noticeable in the firelight – was still a little weak and fainter than usual. He smiled wryly. He didn't even want to know what _he_ looked like.

"I am not fretting, Celylith," he told his companion, his smile widening. "Wood-elves do not fret."

"Really?" Celylith raised a dark silver eyebrow. "Then I think I will have to have a serious talk with my father concerning my parentage once I get back home, because I will freely admitting to having fretted in the past."

"Oh?"

"Oh yes, definitely." The other elf nodded. "Mostly over you." 

"When have I ever given you reason to fret?" Legolas asked indignantly.

For a second, Celylith only stared at him with wide eyes that were in the distinct danger of coming loose and dropping into his lap. A moment later, the spell was broken when Celylith – in a display Legolas would remember for many years to come – abandoned every shred of elven composure and dignity he possessed and quite literally fell over backwards laughing. Legolas wasn't sure if he had ever seen his childhood friend laugh so hard, but he suspected that he hadn't.

For the first minute or so, Legolas suffered the furtive, questioning looks that the rangers around them shot him in silence and dignity. Another minute later, the looks were not quite so furtive anymore, and Celylith's very un-elven and hyena-like howls of laughter were slowly beginning to get on his nerves. When Haldar began to walk over to their campfire, a wide-eyed Halbarad in tow, Legolas rolled his eyes in annoyance and reached out to grasp Celylith's sleeve, yanking him back up onto the log.

The other elf needed some time to compose himself, but within another minute or two he was only hiccupping slightly and shaking with silent giggles once in a while.

"I … I am sorry … my lord," Celylith finally managed to bring out, fighting valiantly for control faced with a stony-faced Legolas and two wide-eyed rangers. "I … I just couldn't…"

"It's all right," Legolas said with a smile that was so fake that it hurt just looking at it. "We will talk about it later, Captain."

The mention of his rank instantly sobered the other elf, who knew that Legolas was seriously unamused when he was stressing his rank. That notwithstanding, he still couldn't stop grinning. It was most certainly the most hilarious thing his friend had ever said to him, Celylith decided, fighting the urge to start chuckling once again. When had Legolas ever given him reason to fret over him? Valar, if it wasn't so funny it would be downright absurd.

"Is everything all right?" Haldar asked, looking from one elf to the other. He was by now quite used to elves and their strange ways, and he was relatively certain that rolling on the ground giggling like madmen was not something they usually did.

"Of course." Legolas smiled that terrible, bright smile of his again, the one that suggested that he was either not listening to you at all or that he was contemplating the best way to hit you over the head and steal all your valuables. "You must forgive my companion. The last day has been … stressful."

"I see." Haldar cocked his head slightly to the side. It was clear that he didn't see and even clearer that he didn't want to challenge the elven prince when he was smiling at him in such a manner. He shrugged inwardly and dismissed the matter. Let the elf smile about what he wanted; he was reasonably sure that he didn't possess anything worth being hit over the head for. "Have you seen Estel today? Is he all right?"

Legolas' smile faded and disappeared.  
"The twins say that he is. And they are usually right about these things."

"Forgive me for saying so, Master Elf, but that doesn't sound overly confident."

The fair-haired elf shrugged and invited the two rangers to sit down next to them with a wave of his hand.  
"It isn't," he replied simply. "I have seen the two of them too often with bleeding wounds and insisting that they were fine to believe anything they say."

"But usually they know what they are talking about," Celylith insisted, giving Legolas an unreadable look. "They are very well-trained in the healing arts and were instructed by their father, the Lord of Rivendell. If they say Estel will be fine, he will be."

"I am sure they are correct," Halbarad said, earnestness emanating from every fibre of his being. It was clear that, for him, imagining that the fabled sons of Elrond might be wrong about something was as impossible and unfathomable as the sun falling out of the sky. "He has already woken up, hasn't he?"

"Yes, he has," Haldar confirmed, turning suspicious eyes on the younger man. "And where did you hear that?"

Halbarad assumed the expression of someone who hadn't ever heard the meaning of the word 'guilty', least of all could imagine applying it to oneself.

"From … someone?" he ventured. Haldar didn't look impressed, and so he added reluctantly, "From Lhanton."

"I should have known," Haldar said, mock disapproval in his voice. "That man seems to know everything that goes on in this camp."

"He should come with us when we return to Rivendell," Legolas muttered. "He would get along wonderfully with Lord Erestor."

"If you say so, my lord," Haldar said. He clearly had no idea what the elf was talking about, but he didn't really care, either. Who knew why Elves said the things they did? "Where is he, by the way? I haven't seen him since he returned with Hírgaer and Ereneth."

Halbarad's face changed from innocent and amused to serious.  
"He's with Serothlain."

Haldar accepted his reply with a nod. Needless to say, Serothlain wasn't … well, wasn't doing well. Haldar had been there when the captain had told him what had happened to Ciryon. Serothlain hadn't said anything – no words of denial or anger or grief, nothing. He had only listened with what looked with polite interest, and the only thing that had changed over the course of the minutes that Captain Daervagor had spoken was the colour of his face, which had turned to a sickly shade of white-grey. When the captain had been finished, Serothlain had – still in that dreadfully polite tone of voice – asked to be dismissed and had disappeared like a wraith in the night.

Haldar had been too busy trying to bring order into the chaos that had so suddenly enveloped their camp to be able to look for him, but he had later heard that Lhanton had done the only sensible thing: He had found Hasteth, the healer from the village close-by, and had told her what had happened. That Serothlain's fiancée had been in the camp when they had arrived was the one small ray of light in this catastrophe, both for them and for Serothlain. Most rangers were at least marginally skilled in the healing arts, but Hasteth was the daughter of the village healer. She was experienced and knew exactly what she was doing. Somehow she had kept Serothlain from exploding, which was exactly what Haldar had expected of him. Serothlain was a calm, quiet man who was intensely loyal to those he cared about or considered his responsibility, and Haldar had always dreaded what would happen to him if Ciryon or another of his friends died.

"How is he?" Legolas asked, his thoughts clearly going into the same direction. "I haven't seen him since yesterday. I would like to express my condolences."

"I am sure he would appreciate that, my lord," Haldar said in his most diplomatic voice. "He and Ciryon are … were … very close."

"He's not taking it very well." Halbarad nodded. "That's what I heard, at least. No one has seen him since last night."

"Let me guess," Celylith said, a faint smile on his lips. "You heard it from Lhanton."

"Well – yes."

Celylith's smile faded a little. He hated to admit to being wrong, but it seemed as if Lhanton was a far more serious adversary than he had thought. Aragorn might – just _might_! – have been right after all. It was something he would never tell the man, of course, not even under the worst of tortures.

It was silent for a few seconds while the four of them stared into the campfire. The heat of the day was slowly lessening as the shadows of night deepened, and the two humans were gratefully warming their hands. Legolas watched Halbarad for a few moments, making sure to do it furtively in order not to alarm the young ranger to his interest. He found it hard to wrap his mind around the concept that this man – this boy, really – was Aragorn's cousin. Second cousin, in fact, but that mattered little. He had been so used to Aragorn being an orphan whose only family was Lord Elrond's that he found it hard to imagine that he might actually have a human family. He wasn't really sure how he felt about that – especially considering that Aragorn didn't seem too sure either –, but Halbarad was so friendly and simply eager that it was hard not to like him. He wondered if the boy knew of the relationship between himself and Aragorn, but quickly decided that it was highly unlikely. Daervagor didn't seem like the type to share information unless he absolutely had to, not even – or maybe especially – when it concerned his family.

Legolas was so immersed in his musings that he was actually surprised when the object of his deliberations turned his head and looked at him. For a second, Halbarad seemed surprised to find himself the focus of the elf's attention, but then he inclined his head in a manner of acknowledgement, the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. Legolas, who knew when he had been found out, returned the nod as regally as he could. It seemed that, no matter how young and inexperienced the boy was, he wasn't stupid or inattentive. Of course he was not, he told himself immediately. He was Aragorn's _cousin_, after all.

"What about the patrols?" he eventually asked. "Have they all returned?"

"All but one." Haldar nodded. The two elves' heads immediately came up, and he added quickly, "It's the commander. He took five men with him and made a detour to the village on the way back to help organise the defences there. He's not due back for another hour or so."

The two elves exchanged a look that Haldar had no trouble deciphering. They were clearly unprepared and unwilling to believe anything concerning the state of health of any ranger until they saw the man in question with their own eyes.

"What will you do about the village?" Celylith asked, leaning forward slightly. "With orcs on the loose this far inside the Angle, its inhabitants will need protection."

The looks the two rangers gave him were decidedly frosty. It was obvious that they did not appreciate the implications of Celylith's words.

"They are _dúnedain_, Master Elf," Haldar said, a cold expression on his face that reminded the wood-elf of the long journey that had been filled with uncomfortable silences. "They know how protect themselves. But I expect that the captain will station a small contingent of rangers there, just to make sure. We do not have the manpower to protect the village all the time, however. We can only hope that we can stop the orcs before they become a danger to our people."

"And if you can't?" Celylith asked softly.

"Then all we can do is pray that the men can stall them long enough for the women and children to escape," Haldar replied in a similar tone of voice. "The captain will most likely meet with the elders tomorrow to discuss the option of evacuation. If there is no conclusive proof that the orcs have retreated, he might order it anyway. We cannot guarantee the villagers' safety, and the orcs have proven that they are not afraid to attack openly."

"There have been no reports of orc activity close-by?" Legolas asked, quite unimpressed by the cold look Haldar gave the two of them. The rangers might not like Celylith's questions, but they were more than justified.

"None." Halbarad shook his head. "That is what has the captain so mystified. We haven't seen or heard anything – no tracks, no rumours, no nothing. Nor have the other companies. But that has changed now."

"No." Legolas shook his head. "They _chose_ to change that. They must have known that they wouldn't evade detection any longer if they came forward and attacked openly. Whatever it is they want, it must be important enough to risk exposure."

"You speak as though you believe them to be organised," the young ranger said, a frown creasing his forehead.

"They are." Legolas nodded. "Orcs can be organised. They can develop plans and strategies. They usually don't and resort to the 'Let's rush them and club them to death' method, but that doesn't mean that they can't, if the circumstances demand it and if they have the right leader. We can't be sure until all the patrols have returned and we have heard all reports, but there is no doubt about it in my heart. This is far, far worse than your usual orc incursion."

There wasn't much to be said to that, and so it was silent for a few moments. Celylith wasn't quite so stunned by Legolas' words (they had been talking about little else this past day or so and had, no matter from what angle they had looked at the facts, come to just this conclusion) and was so just trying to find a way to break the uncomfortable silence when movement to the left caught his eye. He turned slightly, and saw the first _dúnadaneth_ of his life.

The first thing he noticed about her was that she was … well, small. That wasn't really correct; she was tall for a human, but not for one of the Dúnedain. She was over a head smaller than her companion, who wasn't overly tall himself. Other than that, she was clearly one of Aragorn's people: Slender, dark-haired and grey-eyed. The dark cloak she was wearing hid most of her attire, but from what he could see and judging by the many pouches dangling from her belt, it was practical and durable. Her companion stood with his back half-turned towards them, his face averted, while the woman spoke to him in a quiet tone of voice. Celylith didn't have to be a mind-reader to know that the very last thing he wanted was to comply with the woman's wishes.

In the end, of course, the ranger sighed and nodded. Taking his companion's arm, he squared his shoulders, turned around and began to walk over to them. Unsurprisingly enough, it was Serothlain who was leading the woman over to their campfire, an expression on his face that was completely blank. His eyes flickered over the four of them when he stopped in front of them, but there was no emotion in them that Celylith could discern.

Serothlain gave his fellow rangers only the most cursory nod before he turned his attention to the two elves.  
"My lords, allow me to present to you Hasteth. Hasteth, these are the Lords Legolas and Celylith of Mirkwood."

"It is a pleasure," Legolas assured the young woman, giving her a polite bow that was mirrored by Celylith. "You must be the healer we have heard so much about."

"I am," Hasteth said, inclining her head in greeting. "It was fortunate that I had not yet returned home. I am glad I could be of service."

"It was fortunate indeed," Haldar agreed and gave her a small smile. "Well met, Hasteth."

"Well met, Haldar." The young woman returned the smile. "I did not see you last night. I feared for you until Serothlain told me you were all right."

Haldar's smile widened a little. Hasteth was one of his remote cousins – so remote in fact that you had to be a hobbit to figure out how exactly they were related. Their mothers had been quite friendly in their youths, and the relationship had endured even when his mother had married and moved away. They weren't really close, but he liked her well enough and knew that she knew her craft very well.

"I was with the captain and Commander Cemendur," he explained. Hasteth was not one to become worried easily, and he suddenly felt very bad for having upset her. "I would have sought you out, but when the meeting ended you had already retired for the night."

Hasteth accepted the explanation with a small dip of her head. For a second, it was silent, but then Legolas interrupted the silence by addressing Serothlain who had not said a single word yet. The ranger was pale and looked more tired than Legolas had ever seen a human look. There were deep, dark circles under his eyes that were a testament to a sleepless night, and grief and exhaustion had carved deep lines into his face. He looked as if he was just barely holding onto his self-control, and if it would need only a tiny spark to ignite the terrible fury and pain that raged within him.

"I am sorry, Serothlain," Legolas said simply, sensing that a longer and more formal statement would probably not be received gracefully. "He was a good man who did his duty."

A small, completely humourless smile appeared on the ranger's lips.  
"Oh yes, he did that," he said, his voice as expressionless as his face. "And then he was killed for it."

"Being a ranger was all he ever wanted," Haldar said quietly. Halbarad was only looking on silently, clearly as distraught by the conversation as Serothlain was. "He died trying to protect Ferneth."

"And he didn't succeed!" Serothlain snapped. For the first time, he looked animated and as if he was taking an interest in this conversation. "Ferneth and Araphor are dead and so is Ciryon and nothing was changed!"

Hasteth wordlessly put a hand on her fiancée's forearm, squeezing gently. Serothlain stared at them for a few seconds before he lowered his head and let out a long, trembling sigh. His long dark hair fell forward and hid his features, and in the darkness that was only now and then illuminated by the flickering campfire not even the two elves could make out his expression.

"I apologise," Serothlain said, not raising his head to look at them. "My words were ill-chosen. I … Ciryon was my best friend, my brother-in-arms, and I let him down."

"You did nothing of the sort," Hasteth spoke up before anyone else could say anything. "You weren't even there."

"True." The young ranger turned to his fiancée and gave her a sad, dark smile. "And that's the point of it, isn't it?"

"You know that that is not true," Haldar insisted. "You had your duty and he had his, and even if you had been with him, you don't know if you could have changed anything."

"Haldar is right," Legolas said, nodding at the ranger. Haldar looked positively astonished at that, and Legolas briefly contemplated the possibility of having to catch the man as he fainted. "You would probably only have died with him."

"I know." Serothlain didn't look surprised at his words and only nodded, as if he was stating a fact that he already knew and had accepted.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, with no one knowing what to say or do. Legolas had a lot of experience with situations such as this one, more than he'd ever wanted, and had brought countless families the news of their sons' deaths. It was something he found still almost unbearably hard, and the look of lost, angry grief in the ranger's eyes reminded him so much of the look a comrade of the last warrior he had lost had given him that he was rendered speechless. Serothlain still refused to look at anybody, staring resolutely at the ground, while Hasteth's grey eyes were darting from one of them to the next, positively begging them to do something.

Sudden footsteps sounded behind them, and all of them turned around. Legolas wasn't sure which party was more relieved, the two rangers and Celylith and him or Hasteth and Serothlain, but none of them was unhappy to see Lhanton walk towards them. The ranger looked rather like someone walking over hot coals against his better judgement. He was clearly aware of the tension that hung in the air around them. He was almost as pale as Serothlain, and even though his face was guarded, there was an aura of deep misery about him. As far as Legolas knew, Lhanton and Ciryon had been friends, too, and his anger went up another notch. He hadn't known Ciryon very well and had certainly not been his friends, but these men here had been, and that alone was reason enough to fortify his resolve to find the one responsible for all this.

"There you are! I have been looking for you," Lhanton said, looking anxiously from Serothlain to Haldar to Legolas, or rather as anxiously as a ranger ever looked at anybody. "Or rather, I have been looking for our temporary healer," he added, giving Hasteth a small bow. "Amlaith, being the stubborn idiot that he apparently is, didn't use a sling and twisted his broken arm. They're afraid that it will have to be reset."

"Then I should have a look at him, before he cripples his arm in his folly," Hasteth said with a small, not very genuine smile. "Are all of your men so bull-headed, cousin?"

Haldar smiled at her manner of address. It was a relict of their childhood, and he felt a sudden, strong rush of affection for his kinswoman. He would have to invite her to come and visit him and his wife; the two women liked each other well enough and the children adored Hasteth.

"Many of them are," he admitted with a small shrug. "But Amlaith isn't one of ours, strictly speaking."

"A triviality."

"I will accompany you," Serothlain cut in before someone could say ask him any more questions. "I … I have wanted to thank him, just as I will have to thank Estel when he is back on his feet."

"Thank them for what?" Halbarad asked after the other ranger and his fiancée had already nodded at them and turned around.

For a second it seemed as if Serothlain wouldn't answer, but then he turned back to face him, his hand that was resting on Hasteth's white and trembling slightly.

"For trying," he said simply. With another nod he turned back and a second later he was gone, leading his fiancée towards the centre of the camp.

Lhanton hesitated for a few seconds before giving them a shrug that spoke to equal parts of helplessness and grief.  
"He … he is having a very hard time accepting what happened. It is a good thing that Hasteth is here."

"Yes," Haldar agreed. "It is. Have you discovered anything during your patrol?"

"Nothing." The other ranger shook his head, unperturbed by the sudden change of topic. "We combed every inch of our sector; we should have found something! I don't care what they say about … well, my point is that Ereneth and Hírgaer are just as capable as any other pair of rangers, and together they are formidable. If there had been something to find, we would have found it."

Haldar and Halbarad remained even-faced, while Legolas wondered – not for the first time – just why everyone kept insisting that 'no matter what, Ereneth and Hírgaer are fine warriors'. This was already the third or fourth time he had heard it or something like it, and he mentally put it on his 'Things that would have to be discussed with Aragorn once he got his hands on that foolish excuse for a ranger' list.

"That cannot be," Halbarad said, bringing Legolas back to the problem on hand. "Didn't you have one of the northwestern sectors? They are orcs; they must have left some sort of trail."

"One would think so, wouldn't one?" Lhanton agreed almost cheerfully, even though there was deep seriousness behind his smile. "But no, we didn't find anything. There was no trace of them, none at all. It doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, it does," Legolas said softly. "Only not the kind of sense that any of us would like."

Lhanton shot him a sharp look, but let the matter rest when it became clear that Legolas had no wish or intention to elaborate.  
"I have to go. I don't want to leave him alone for too long."

"You'd better not." Legolas inclined his head, clearly expressing what all of them were thinking. He didn't know Serothlain all that well, but it was clear that the ranger was holding onto his self-control with the last of his strength. "I know that Ciryon was your friend as well, Lhanton. I am very sorry about what happened."

Lhanton had already turned around, but Legolas' words stopped him in his tracks. He didn't turn around, however, and only the straightening of his already rigid shoulders showed that he had in fact heard him.

"Yes," he said quietly. "So am I."

A moment later he was gone and the four of them were alone once more, the only sound to be heard the crackling of the fire, the chirping of insects and the occasional hoot of a night bird.

"Well," Haldar finally said with the forced cheerfulness of someone who knew that he possessed only a limited capacity for diplomacy and wasn't doing a very good job using what he had, "Have you already been told about the meeting tomorrow morning? The captain would be honoured if the two of you and also the Lords Elladan and Elrohir could attend. The commander will be there as well."

Legolas couldn't quite suppress a small, wry smile. He was willing to bet a large part of his not inconsiderable fortune that Daervagor hadn't used these exact words. He might have, now that he thought about it, but only when referring to the twins. Daervagor respected them, even liked them, he thought, while the antipathy he harboured for the dear captain seemed to be returned by him more or less wholeheartedly. Perversely enough, it made him feel better about disliking the man.

"Yes, the twins informed us," he said, still smiling slightly. "We will be there, of course."

Haldar smiled back, apparently guessing what he was thinking.  
"Very well. I bid you a good night, then, my lords. I think we all need some rest – even the Firstborn among us."

"You might be right about that, Master Ranger," Celylith agreed, bowing his head. "A good night to you."

The two rangers returned the nod and turned around, disappearing into the night. Celylith and Legolas slowly returned to their seats next to the campfire, a comfortable silence falling between them. In the end, when Celylith realised that Legolas had no intention of retiring and abandoning his rather conspicuous vantage point on the twins' tent where Aragorn was most likely sleeping peacefully, the wood-elf got to his feet and gave his prince a sketched bow. If he left now, he could still spend some time with Lúthien. He hadn't let her out of her bag yesterday – understandable in all the chaos –, so by now she was probably rather unhappy.

"I will retire as well, my friend. If I leave now, I can go and see how the horses are doing. Rashwe wasn't looking too happy the last time I saw him."

It wasn't the whole truth, of course. He had no intention of going anywhere near that monster, but he was willing to cast a look in the horse's general direction as he walked to their tent.

"Very well, _mellon nín_." Legolas nodded absently. "Good night."

Legolas almost immediately returned his attention to the white tent to their right, and Celylith had already turned around and taken the first few steps into the direction of their own when the other elf's voice halted him in mid-step.

"Don't think I don't know that you have no intention of seeing to the horses."

Celylith stiffened slightly as he turned around, forcing an innocent smile onto his face. He knew that tone of voice; Legolas usually used it when he knew something you didn't or at least wouldn't like, something he was going to enjoy rubbing in your face.  
"I don't?"

"You don't," Legolas confirmed with a small nod. "You already took care of Rashwe yesterday. You aren't that suicidal."

"Maybe not." Celylith nodded, inwardly sighing with relief. It seemed as if he had worried needlessly, something that was rather understandable in his opinion. If Legolas ever found out that he had disobeyed his direct (and very explicit) orders and had taken Lúthien with him, he would not be pleased. And that was the understatement of the century. "Not yet, anyway. Good night, my lord."

He turned back around and was already several dozen paces away when Legolas spoke again, a mixture of amusement and annoyance in his voice.

"Oh, and Celylith? I know that you took that accursed bat with you."

…damn it.

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TBC...

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_muindor dithen - little brother  
ada - father (daddy)  
pen-neth - young one  
dúnedain - 'Men of the West', rangers  
dúnadaneth - 'Woman of the West'  
mellon nín - my friend_

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Ah well. Poor Celylith. It was worth a try, I guess. •g• So, stay tuned for the next chapter, in which a lot of interesting things happen. The rangers and assorted elves go a step further in their deliberations and come to a rather nasty conclusion, we find out just what Legolas really thinks about Lúthien being with them, Skagrosh is, as already mentioned earlier, in a pickle, and we find out what is really the matter with Hírgaer and his brother. Until then, reviews are, as always, loved, cherished and greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance!**

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**Additional A/N:**

I have to apologise to no one for not including them! That's ... that's the first time, I really think it is. Still, I'll repeat this to keep it that way: If you wish to be included in the review replies, which I send via a big group email, please make sure that you have a valid email address listed on your profile page or, if you want to review anonymously, that you provide an email address there. Thank you and I apologise in advance for any inconvenience this might cause!  



	17. Oliphaunts And Other Animals

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**I know, I know, most people had already thought me dead. I even heard about one or two search parties having been sent out. I think a few even got rather close to here, but I managed to hide just in time. Why, you ask? Well, let's just say that I've been in a foul, let me repeat this, a FOUL mood. There is an explanation for that, of course. I'm at my mother's place in Portugal at the moment, and because the flights were so bloody expensive, I chose one via Málaga. That, I'm afraid, was Mistake Number One. Mistake Number Two was sitting down close to the bus station for a few minutes, which resulted in Mistake Number Three: Having Your Bag Stolen. Again. It's the third time in two years, and it has long since ceased to be amusing. •grr•**

**Don't ask me how it happened; I bloody well lived in the country for a year, I am ALWAYS careful. I had the bag's stupid strap on my stupid knee! Still, somehow someone managed to steal it (I didn't notice a thing! I would be rather impressed if I wasn't so angry), which got me into serious trouble, since my ID card – plus most of my money, my papers, my MP3 player, my camera and so on – was in there. Still, I was lucky. I went into a bar and found a few nice gentlemen who happened to know where the next consulate was, at what time it opened the next morning, and who called the police for me. I then went to the police station – at 1 am in the morning – to file a report, and got my replacement passport just in time to catch my bus to Sevilla. Still, NOT recommended. It ruined the start of my holiday. Why all this is important? Because I had put my story on a USB stick which, naturally, was in the bag, too. So I had to wait for my flat mate to get back from her own vacation, which took longer than expected, and she had to sent it to me. Which wasn't so easy since the internet here has been down for a while. So, to sum all this up: Nili should never go anywhere, because she's too bloody stupid to look after her things, including her story.**

**•takes deep breath• Sorry for making you listen to this. It's been a few weeks now, and it STILL makes me angry. So, let's just say that I am sorry for keeping you waiting, but you can rest assured that I had a far worse time than you did. You get an extra-long chapter as compensation, too. •sheepish smile•**

**Enough of that. The review responses for last chapter will be a bit late (how does ... Tuesday sound?), because I don't have my Thunderbird here on this computer and my email provider only lets me send an email to four or five people at once. So I'd rather wait and send them all out in one go. Okay? Okay. So, where were we? Oh yes, THERE. So, everybody has a nice (or rather not-so-nice) discussion, the twins get a bit angry, so do Aragorn and Daervagor, and Legolas decides to be the Voice of Reason that Says What Needs To Be Said. Plus, Aragorn and Legolas have a long-awaited chat, Hírgaer makes a surprise appearance and explains a few things, and Skagrosh is not a happy orc. Why? Because the Master isn't happy, either.**

**Have fun and review, please!**

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Chapter 17

The new day had dawned bright and beautiful, just like almost every day had over the past weeks. The rain that Legolas had anticipated was only heralded by dense clouds on the far horizon, and for now it was dry and hot, even though it was still quite early.

Inside of Daervagor's tent, however, the temperature seemed to be close to arctic, something that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather and a lot more with the company. Or rather, the combination of the company and the topic that said company was right now discussing.

It wasn't that everyone was being difficult on purpose, Legolas thought darkly, doing his very best to hold onto the rather fake smile he had pasted onto his face. But tempers were frayed, patience was in short supply, and most of the humans were close to exhaustion. Oh, and the fact that one half of those present couldn't stand the other half didn't help matters either.

Legolas slowly and quite openly allowed his eyes to wander over the small space, something that he usually wouldn't have done for fear of suggesting that he was bored out of his mind. Daervagor's tent was bigger than that of most other rangers – except for one former storage tent that had been converted into something of a hospital –, but that didn't mean all that much. There were eight people crammed into the small space, and he was willing to bet that things would get truly interesting should only one more person wish to join them. Why they should wish to join them was a mystery of course, especially considering the current, not very friendly atmosphere, but some people were just strange like that.

Another thing that was quite remarkable was how steadfastly everybody refused to mingle. The elves remained on the one side and the rangers on the other, with Aragorn and the twins located in the middle, smiling nervously at both parties from time to time. It was hardly surprising, considering the subject they were discussing.

Or rather, the subject the others were discussing. Legolas had ordered Celylith to keep out of this as much as possible (and had promised his friend to try and do the same), since they were only here as a sign of courtesy and because, no matter how little attention Daervagor paid them, he knew very well who Legolas was. He wasn't about to offend the Elvenking by consciously excluding his son from a crucial meeting such as this one. Legolas would even have understood it if he had – well, mostly anyway – since this did not concern him directly, at least not from the captain's point of view, but Daervagor was taking no chances.

There was one thing Legolas had never doubted about the man, and that was that he was intelligent and knew very well what he was doing.

"Very well," the man in question said just then, his grey eyes locking with Aragorn's. "Before we get further entangled in this discussion, let me just ask you one thing, Estel: Why in Elbereth's name did you not tell us before this?"

Aragorn's face remained expressionless, if one disregarded the small muscle moving in his jaw that, as Legolas knew, meant that he was furious. The young ranger was keeping upright without apparent trouble, but Legolas' sharp eyes hadn't missed the way Aragorn was leaning against the table on which several large maps had been piled. Except for the pallor of his face, Aragorn looked perfectly fine, but his need for some form of support was a sign that he didn't feel nearly as strong and healthy as he pretended. He wasn't the only one to have noticed it; the twins' eyes were drifting back to their human brother frequently, scrutinising him carefully. At least Elladan had clearly readied himself to catch the man should the need arise. Legolas doubted that Elrohir hadn't done the same; the younger twin simply hid it better.

"What would I have told you?" Aragorn's voice sounded normal and strong, though, and Legolas couldn't help but relax a little. He had seen his friend briefly last night, and back then Aragorn hadn't sounded at all like this. "There was nothing to tell, Captain. I did not even know if what I saw was real or a figment of my imagination."

Daervagor didn't say anything for a few moments, nor would he have needed to. The air of profound disbelief around him was quite enough to convey his thoughts. He was, however, too polite or intelligent to openly call Aragorn a liar – which, considering that his brothers were in the room with them, most likely wouldn't have ended so well either.

"I see," he said, showing – for him, that was – considerable constraint. He wasn't laughing or wriggling his eyebrows in disbelief, for one. "But, surely, you must have had some idea that these were no mere dreams?"

Elrohir was about to say something, but Aragorn shot him a quick, quelling look before he returned his attention to the other man. There was faint anger in his eyes as well as uncertainty and annoyance, but also something that looked rather like guilt.  
"I was not sure," he said somewhat haltingly. "I did not know how to make sense of them, and there was nothing … specific. Nothing that would have made me suspect something like this."

There was a disbelieving mumbling from the direction where Cemendur and Haldar stood, and Elladan, who stood closest to the two of them, slowly turned his head and fixed the commander with a _look_ of such menace that even his father would have been impressed. Haldar immediately did his best to assume the look and texture of the once-white fabric at his back.

"Careful, Commander."

It was all the twin said, but there was no more he would have needed to add. Even the stupidest troll would have understood that further comments would not be received well and would most likely result in something very hard or sharp rushing up to meet its face. And while Cemendur wasn't the most sociable – or popular – of persons, he most certainly wasn't stupid.

Daervagor shot his subordinate only the most fleeting of glances, but it was enough to convey his displeasure. Apparently, Legolas thought, almost amused, it was acceptable for the captain to treat Aragorn as if he was a lying imbecile, but not for anybody else.

"So what did you see?" the older ranger asked. He sounded calm enough, but managed to infuse the words with carefully guarded scepticism. The man was good, Legolas admitted absently. He was even very good. He would get along wonderfully with his father; when this was all over, he might have to introduce the two of them.

Aragorn didn't answer the question immediately and only looked at the older man with cool grey eyes. He didn't have to answer the question at all, Legolas thought darkly. He didn't have to justify his actions, not before any of the rangers and most certainly not before Daervagor. Aragorn apparently didn't agree with that assessment, or at least not with the last part of it. He was looking at the captain as if the two of them were the only ones in the tent. Who knew, the elf asked himself. Maybe, right now, for Aragorn they really were.

"Fire. Darkness." The two words were said in a clipped tone of voice and completely devoid of all emotion. "Blood." Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. "Valar, so much blood. A bright star, shining on alone in the darkness. A dark figure that is reaching for me." He opened his eyes again and fixed Daervagor with a look that even the most determined elf would have found hard to bear. The captain had paled, especially when hearing the last sentence, and looked as if he was torn between anger and fear. "That is why we came, Captain. It is not too hard to make the connection if you think about it for a while, is it?"

Daervagor did not betray his feelings in any way. Aragorn might as well have been telling him a bedtime story.  
"Was there anything else?"

"Nothing as specific or clear." Aragorn shook his head quickly, looking as if that movement almost unbalanced him. "Only vague … feelings. Pain. Fear, panic, hopelessness. And anger, the kind of anger that robs you of all clear thoughts and feelings and turns your heart to ash."

Legolas had to give the captain credit for his ability to radiate deep, wholehearted displeasure without saying a word or moving as much as a single muscle. It made him want to strangle the man, especially considering the almost lost look on Aragorn's face. He wasn't the only one, it seemed. Elladan and Elrohir were shooting their human friend looks that even a particularly thick troll would have found hard to ignore.

"And you did not think any of this important enough to share with us? With me?" If Legolas hadn't been so busy simmering with righteous anger, he would have been impressed by the amount of sarcasm that Daervagor managed to cram into two short sentences. "I find that hard to believe."

"What difference would it have made, sir?" Daervagor wasn't the only one who could use sarcasm in a way that would have made Morgoth weep with joy. Aragorn was quite capable of it, too, and right now the sarcasm in which he had clothed the 'sir' was so thick and tangible that Legolas was surprised that you couldn't see it hanging in the air above their heads. "You already knew that the Rangers are in danger. That is why Haldar came to Rivendell, after all."

Daervagor, who had already opened his mouth to say something, closed it again. That was essentially true, after all, and he was not a man prone to denial. The awkward silence between them was interrupted by Elrohir, who – quite reluctantly – seemed to rediscover his diplomatic talent and took half a step forward, moving smoothly in-between the two _dúnedain _who were staring at each other in a way that did not look friendly at all. In fact, Legolas could remember enemy armies eyeing each other with less animosity.

"Do you wish to insult us, my friend?" the younger twin asked, his voice as cold as the north wind, and Legolas frowned inwardly. This wasn't exactly what he had meant by 'diplomatic talent'. "After everything we have been through together, after everything we have seen and done?"

"Indeed," his brother echoed his sentiments. "Pray tell, _friend_, that you are not insinuating that my father and lord kept some vital information from you and your men – or allowed it to be kept from you."

Elladan's voice wasn't cold at all; it didn't have to be. There was enough underlying, dark menace in it to supply Sauron for several years. He stepped forward and lifted his chin, all his attention shifting from his human brother to Daervagor in a movement that was almost tangible. Countless Sindarin and Noldorin royal ancestors seemed to look out of his eyes when he looked at Daervagor – and not the nice kind of ancestors, mind you. It looked more like the kind that slaughtered thousands of orcs and ordered the houses of their own kin burnt down before breakfast.

"I am insinuating no such thing, my lord." Daervagor, Legolas noted, was back-pedalling quite gracefully. "Yet I must strongly express my displeasure. Three of my men are dead, more even, and neither Estel nor you breathed a word about all this before you absolutely had to."

Aragorn closed his eyes and lightly shook his head, clearly having heard all this one too many times, but the twins weren't prepared to give in so easily. Legolas wondered about his human friend's willingness to let Daervagor go so far before he fought back – or even said something, for that matter. Normally, Aragorn would have called out anybody who was saying things like these – not that it would even have got this far, of course. Few people tended to speak when the _look_ was centred on them in all its glory.

"What is it you are saying, Daervagor?" Elrohir asked softly. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he cocked his head to the side as if he wanted to study his old friend more closely. "Let us be clear about this."

There was no menace in his voice, and yet the captain was clearly unable to look away from the younger twin. Elrohir didn't need to sound threatening. He looked so much like Lord Elrond just before he lost his temper that anyone who knew the elf lord would have felt the very strong urge to dive for cover and find something to cover their ears.

"Are you saying that Estel – or we, for that matter," he went on, "knew what was going to happen to Ciryon and the others, or that we suspected, and that we did not tell you? We are here, Captain, as you will remember, under orders from our father and in his place. If you wish to insinuate anything of this kind, you do not only insult us, you insult our lord as well – and that is something neither my brother nor I suffer gladly."

Daervagor didn't say anything and only looked at the twins, but there was anger simmering just beneath the surface. The twins were making their position clear – not that that would really have been necessary, at least not in Legolas' opinion –, and the man didn't like it one bit. Legolas doubted very much that Daervagor was surprised, but things were beginning to get decidedly ugly. The ranger was clearly too bull-headed to back down, and so were the twins. Of course they were, the elven prince thought, exasperated. They were related, after all, and if there was one thing he had learned, it was that anybody even remotely related to – or connected in any way with – Lord Elrond Peredhil of Imladris could be as stubborn as a mule. And, Oromë be his witness, they frequently were, too.

Legolas waited for someone to say something, but everybody glared at each other and kept their mouths tightly shut as if afraid what they might say if they did not take care. Aragorn was still studying his boots as if they were the most interesting things in the world, and Haldar and Cemendur looked decidedly uncomfortable. Haldar, in particular, looked as if he would have liked nothing better than to be somewhere else. The commander looked more as if he really didn't know why he was here and as if he had better things to do. Legolas turned half around and looked at Celylith, who was standing at the very back of the tent and was clearly doing his very best to obey his orders and stay out of this. Celylith caught his eye and shrugged somewhat helplessly, and Legolas couldn't help but wish that he could do the same, namely stay out of this.

Then again, if he did, this would end in bloodshed or, if they were really unlucky, a diplomatic incident. That would be far, far worse, since it would involve their fathers.

"May I offer a suggestion?" he asked, trying to ignore the knowledge that what he was about to say would not really be received well either. Everybody turned to look at him, and if Legolas hadn't been used to the kind of looks he now received – and far, far worse, actually –, he would have staggered back a few paces. "Forgive me if my priorities are in the wrong order, but I don't think that any of this matters now. The past cannot be changed. What is important is that your men are dead, Captain, and that no one could have done anything to stop it. I believe that all of us can agree on that, and that we can leave the rest of this where it belongs – in the past. We are doing them a favour, gentlemen; we are snapping at each other like angry dogs. Fighting amongst ourselves is not going to help anybody – not us, not you, and not Ciryon and the others who died with him."

The twins were looking slightly surprised, as if they couldn't believe that he was actually saying this, but then they gave Aragorn a long look that the man studiously ignored, still engrossed in the not-so-very-fascinating sight of his boots. The rangers didn't look surprised. They looked astonished, and none more than Haldar who was positively gaping at him, eyes round and incredulous. Legolas didn't have to look at Celylith to know what expression his friend was wearing: One of good-humoured, slightly mocking fatalism, the one the other elf always wore when he was trying to be reasonable.

It was almost, Legolas thought to himself, as if Celylith expected him to make everything even worse, the Valar may know why.

"Master Legolas is right," Daervagor declared a moment later, and now it was Legolas' turn to gape at the man. It wasn't that he hadn't thought that the captain could be diplomatic if he had to be, especially towards a wood-elf, but fact was that the two of them couldn't stand each other and knew it very well, too. Hearing him say these particular words was just … well, _wrong_. "We are accomplishing nothing, and are fighting about something that is of no consequence now."

Oh yes, Daervagor could be very diplomatic, the fair-haired elf thought, and could lie as well as any diplomat he knew. Well, maybe not quite as well as Lord Erestor if he thought it necessary, but no one else was actually _that_ good.

"Indeed," Elrohir agreed and bowed his head, shooting Legolas quick, suspicious looks, as if expecting him to have some sort of evil, secret plan. Legolas returned the looks steadily and in full awareness of his complete and utter innocence. He _could_ be the Voice of Reason if he wanted to be. "Our words were … hastily chosen, Captain. I apologise for them."

"And I apologise if I should have given the impression that we blamed you or your father for anything or held any of you," Daervagor's eyes briefly flickered over Aragorn, "responsible for what has happened. The alliance between the Elves of Imladris and the Dúnedain of the North has ever been strong, and never would I dream about questioning it, or you. You have come to help us in our hour of need, and we are grateful for it."

Daervagor meant every word, Legolas thought, somewhat confused. He did honour the alliance, respected the twins and the Elves of Rivendell and was grateful for their help, as were doubtlessly his men. He would never understand this human, he decided thoughtfully. And in the beginning he had thought understanding Aragorn was hard! Aragorn was half an elf himself, really, and, thinking about it now, had always made far more sense than any of the rangers in this camp, even back when Legolas had considered him the strangest being on the face of Arda.

The twins and Daervagor were looking at each other, the tiniest hint of a smile on Elladan's face and something that might have been faint guilt on Daervagor's, apparently ready to put this behind them, at least temporarily. Legolas suspected that all this really wasn't about Aragorn not having told the captain about his dreams and about something entirely different, but he was also quite sure that no one would tell him about what it was, the twins and Aragorn included. It was vexing, really, but he was beginning to get used to it.

"Forgive me, my lord." Haldar's voice made Legolas look up, and the elven prince realised that the man hadn't said anything since the meeting had started. Not that he blamed him; not a lot of people tended to feel the urge to participate when their superior officers and a couple of elf lords hissed at each other like ill-tempered cats. "But I do not think I am the only one wondering about this. Who exactly is 'them'?"

This was the part Legolas had been dreading ever since he and Celylith had reluctantly come to the same conclusion over and over again, no matter how many times they had discussed what had happened and from what angle they had viewed it. He was even more of an outsider here than the twins, and in moments like these he was painfully aware of it. He was also aware of the look that Daervagor shot him, the one that looked almost like a challenge, and that was perhaps what motivated him to throw diplomacy out of the window and be perfectly frank.

"I will be blunt, Haldar," he began, noting with some amusement that the ranger didn't really look surprised by his statement. "We all know who the enemy is. Or rather," he said, giving Aragorn a quick look, "who was sent here. But orcs are usually not this organised or this disciplined, and they don't manage to hide their trail so effectively. I have been fighting them for almost my entire life, both the kind you can find in the Misty Mountains and the ones coming up from the south, and I know them as well as an elf can know their wretched kind. This behaviour is, simply put, not normal."

"And what do you make of this then, my lord?" Daervagor asked, his face still expressionless.

Legolas looked at the captain, looking for any signs of challenge or hostility and finding neither, to his not unsubstantial surprise.

"That they have a leader who knows exactly what he is doing," he answered simply. "Someone who is most likely not an orc himself, but who has enough authority to lead the horde. Someone who is clever and experienced and, above all, ruthless enough to make them obey his orders and keep them from being discovered. Someone," he went on, looking Daervagor straight in the eye, "who knows a lot about your plans and what is going on in the camps of the Rangers."

It took a few moments for the human warriors to understand what Legolas was aiming at. The twins or Aragorn didn't look surprised; they only looked tired and sad and, in Aragorn's case, exhausted.

"What is it you are saying, my lord?" Cemendur finally asked, blinking rapidly as if hoping that his surroundings would change if he only did it quickly enough. "That someone in one of our camps is supplying the enemy with information? That we have a _traitor_ in our midst?"

"Yes," Legolas said calmly and very, very clearly. "That is exactly what I am saying, Commander."

"Impossible," the man declared flatly, barely controlled anger making his voice dark and rough. "None of our men would do this. You don't know what you are talking about, elf."

"Lord Legolas," Celylith stressed, speaking for the first time and fixing the ranger with a dark look that should rightly have sent him crashing backwards, "knows exactly what he is talking about, _Master_ Ranger. You would do well to heed his words."

"I cannot believe it." Haldar shook his head. "I simply cannot."

"It is the only explanation that makes sense." Legolas looked at him with a look of pity in his eyes. "I know that none of you wishes to hear this, especially at a time like this, but how else would they have remained hidden from your sight? How else would they have known where Ciryon and the others were and when to strike, if they did not send out scouts? And they couldn't have, because you would have noticed. Someone supplied them with information, dúnedain. Someone told them exactly what to do, and when to do it, and where to hide. The one who commands the orcs is clever, clever enough to evade you for these past months. He is also clever enough to know that, without intelligence on your movements, he is doomed. He has someone on the inside. Someone has betrayed you, and probably still is."

"How do you know this?" Cemendur asked belligerently, anger and something else – something far harder to read – in his eyes. "How could you possibly know what this _someone _would do?"

The expression on the man's face made the twins and Aragorn stiffen slightly, and Celylith nonchalantly pushed himself off the pole he had been leaning against and sidled up to Legolas' side. Legolas was sure that he wasn't the only one to notice that the silver-haired elf's hand was only scant inches away from the hilt of his long dagger that hung at his side. Legolas himself was quite unaffected by the unvoiced implications and the ranger's aggressive stance, however, and merely shrugged, his eyes not leaving Cemendur's angry grey ones.

"Because that is exactly what I would do if I were in his place," he told the man calmly. "A mission of such secrecy cannot succeed if you do not know exactly what you are doing. If you do not have accurate information – and someone to supply it –, you are doomed, and if you are intelligent, you know it. The one responsible for this has yet to be found and so have the orcs, thus he must be intelligent enough to be aware of that. No one gets that lucky for that long a time."

Aragorn grimaced slightly but still opened his mouth to speak, looking as if he didn't really believe the words he was saying.  
"There is no proof that all the disappearances…"

"The deaths."

"All the deaths," Aragorn smoothly took Haldar's softly spoken interjection into account, "are to be attributed to this group of orcs, whether it has such a leader or not."

"No, there isn't," Legolas agreed. "But what are the chances that there is someone or something else loose in the Angle that has miraculously also avoided detection?"

Aragorn bowed his head and admitted defeat, but Cemendur was not willing to follow his example. The older ranger shook his head sharply from side to side, and when he looked at Legolas there was a hostility in his eyes that the elf found quite hard to explain and strangely inappropriate.

"You have no proof of this, elf," he all but spat. Even though Legolas didn't turn around, he could almost see how Celylith bristled at the manner of address, and so he minutely shook his head. The last thing he needed was one of his father's captains trying to kill a high-ranking ranger, no matter how irritating he was. "You accuse one of our men – one of us! – of treachery!? How…"

"He is right."

Daervagor's calm words halted the other ranger in mid-sentence, and Legolas mentally took a firm hold of his jaw to stop it from dropping onto the ground. He hadn't expected reasonable agreement from any of the rangers – Cemendur was right, after all, he _was_ accusing one of them of betrayal –, even though he had to admit that the commander's vehement hostility surprised him. But that Daervagor actually agreed with him, and that in such an open, straightforward manner … well, that was something he had most certainly not anticipated, not even in his more unlikely visions of how this particular encounter would go. And that meant a lot – one of them had included the rangers hitting him over the head with a tent pole.

The others didn't appear to be any less surprised and simply stared at the captain with something that came quite close to open-mouthed astonishment. Faced with such a reaction, the by now familiar, dark annoyance laid itself over the captain's face, and Legolas' couldn't help but shake his head. He would never, ever, understand this man, not even if he studied him for the rest of his life.

"There is no other explanation," Daervagor went on gruffly, sounding as if the very words he was speaking were distasteful. "Someone – one of our men or one of the other companies – must be working with them."

"Sir," Cemendur began, looking as if he couldn't believe his ears, "you cannot mean to…"

"Yes, Cemendur," the captain said shortly and in a tone of voice that discouraged all further discussion. "I do mean to. The only question is, what do we do about it?"

"Oh, that should be easy," Elladan said, a very cold smile on his face. "Find whoever it is and execute him for betraying his oath, his comrades and his people. Or is that not how you do these things?"

"Oh no, my friend." Daervagor returned the smile. If anything, it was even colder. "That is exactly how we do these things."

"We must not give any indication that we are suspecting something like this," Legolas said, some urgency in his voice. That smile on Elladan's and Daervagor's lips more or less excluded subtlety from the start. "If we do, he – whoever he is – will feel threatened and will either disappear or become more inconspicuous than a snow troll in a blizzard."

The others nodded, complete agreement on their faces that Legolas hadn't expected either, but then Aragorn's soft voice cut through the silence, clearly audible despite the fact that he seemed to be talking more to himself than to anybody else.

"It doesn't matter. He won't stop."

"Who, Estel?" Elrohir asked with a small frown.

"The one responsible for all this. The dark figure in my dreams. I don't know how I know this, but I do know that he will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Expose his spy, don't expose him, exile him, execute him – it will not matter. He will not stop until he has what he wants."

"And what is that?" For the first time, there was worry in Daervagor's voice and fear in his eyes, and he didn't seem to care who saw or heard it.

"I don't know," Aragorn said and averted his eyes. "I have no idea."

But he did, and if the growing fear in his eyes was anything to go by, Daervagor did, too.  
**  
****  
****  
**

In approximately five minutes it would start raining and he would get soaking wet, but somehow Aragorn couldn't bring himself to go back to his tent or at least find some shelter.

In his eyes, it was rather understandable, even though he knew that his brothers didn't share his opinion, as they rarely did when something concerned his health and well-being. It didn't seem to matter that they had spent much of their lives around and with humans; when it came to his health they often treated him like something made out of crystal that could easily shatter if you looked at it too hard. It had taken him most of the afternoon to escape their watchful eyes, an effort that had involved an embarrassingly high number of failed attempts, and he would be damned if he ruined it all now by returned to his tent. One of them would be waiting there, that was as certain as the sunrise in the morning.

They were predictable, his brothers, which didn't make them even the slightest bit less irritating. They were worried for him and only had his best interests in mind, he was aware of that, but that didn't really change all that much.

Aragorn placed a protective hand on his wounded side that throbbed in unison with his heartbeat and slowly sat back, his eyes on the dancing flames of the campfire. Halbarad had been here earlier, but he had left a few minutes ago to see Lhanton off, who had been leaving the camp with some other rangers to relieve the men of one of the guard posts. The young man had looked reluctant to leave him alone – causing Aragorn to ask himself if he had been instructed by his father or Haldar to keep an eye on him –, but Aragorn had smiled at him and assured him that he would be fine and would find his way back to his tent. There had been something in his smile that had convinced his cousin – either the almost-innocent sincerity or the faint menace in it – and so he had complied, but not without giving him long, searching looks over his shoulder that he might as well have borrowed from Elrohir.

Aragorn hadn't asked the younger man how many warriors were leaving with Lhanton – not that it was really necessary, mind you. Daervagor had given the order that no one was to go anywhere accompanied by less than two people, a measure that they had agreed was inconspicuous enough and would surely be attributed to what had happened to Ciryon and his men. The real reason, of course, was not having anyone go anywhere with only one other warrior – who might very well turn out to be working for the wrong side. The others had debated for a long time what to do about this whole, colossal _mess_ they were in, but Aragorn hadn't really cared, even though he knew he should. The knowledge that none of this would matter at all had numbed everything else except for the pain in his side. When he had left the meeting which had dragged on for quite a long time (almost long enough to completely exhaust him), he would have been hard-pressed to say about what they had all been talking all the time.

That had never happened to him before, at least not when the meeting in question was so important, and Aragorn felt ashamed of himself.

He was quite immersed in his musings when footsteps could be heard behind him, and Aragorn slowly turned around, biting down on his lower lip when his wounded side protested vehemently against the movement. To his surprise, he saw that there were actually two people walking up to him, not only one, even though making that mistake was quite understandable. The second one was an elf who trod so silently that no normal man would have been able to hear him at all, but then again, Aragorn was no normal man. He had grown up with elves and had spent most of his childhood and adolescence trying to avoid them or avoid being surprised by them, and if he didn't hear an elf who was making no effort to silence his steps, he was far worse off than he had originally thought.

Well, Aragorn admitted to himself after a quick mental check while he waited for the two of them to draw closer, maybe he was the tiniest bit tired. There was also the pain in his torso, but that hardly could have distracted him so, could it?

"You were right indeed, Master Ranger," the elf declared while he was still a few yards away from the campfire, turning back to his companion and giving him a quick smile. "He is hiding out in the open. Quite a clever strategy, actually."

Haldar didn't say anything and only nodded his head, and the almost-guilty look on the older man's face was enough to stop Aragorn from glaring at him.

"I am disappointed, _mellon nín_," he told the elf instead, turning back to the fire. "You need help to find me? That does seem rather un-wood-elven, doesn't it?"

Legolas did not comment on that and only followed Haldar up to the fire, something that, considering the well-known wood-elven pride, was quite a remarkable act of self-control. The two of them looked intensely at the young ranger who, with similar intensity, ignored it. In the end, it was Haldar who broke the silence first. Maybe the meeting this morning had weakened the other man's ability to withstand long silences, Aragorn thought to himself, amused.

"It's going to rain soon, Estel," the ranger said, quite unnecessarily in Aragorn's opinion. The thick, grey clouds that had been looming on the horizon had slowly but steadily drifted closer to them and had now gathered directly above them. They completely blocked out the moon and stars, making the night look far darker and more threatening than usual, and the wind had picked up considerably over the past hour. _Of course_ it was going to rain soon. "You should get back to your tent."

"And run straight into Elladan's arms?" Aragorn asked somewhat scornfully. "I don't think so. Or is it Elrohir?"

"No, it is Elladan," Legolas admitted. He sounded quite cheerful, as if he was happy that the twins weren't nearly as unpredictable as they liked to think. "Elrohir is with Hasteth, the small healer. She is returning to the village tomorrow, and she asked him to explain some sort of medical procedure to her."

"He is probably only doing that to get some more sleeping herbs from her," Aragorn commented. "Even though I cannot imagine why he would need more. _Ada_ gave us enough to drug half the Gondorian army into the next age."

"Don't be so paranoid, Estel," Legolas admonished him. "He is acting out of professional courtesy and the goodness of his heart, I am sure. Besides, he has Elladan to lurk in the shadows and wait for you to reappear. He doesn't have to be there as well."

That was true, Aragorn had to admit that. He remained silent, though, staring at the wildly flickering flames of the fire. Haldar, who was no fool and more perceptible than most, looked from his young lord to the elf standing next to him and back again, and wisely decided that his presence was no longer necessary. In fact, his presence might not be exactly appreciated.

"I will go back then, if you do not need me any more, my lord," he said, nodding at Legolas. "I have to make sure the horses are settled for the night and as sheltered as possible. We wouldn't want them to panic or a tree to drop on them, now would we?"

Legolas briefly imagined Rashwe's reaction to something like that and shuddered inwardly. He was as brave a warrior as the next wood-elf and he liked his horse, he really did, but he didn't want to be in the vicinity of said horse should a tree actually have the audacity to drop on it.

"I thank you for your help, Haldar. But tell me, why would something like that happen? It looks like rain, yes, but not like a truly bad storm."

"Oh, I am sure it will not, your Highness." Haldar shook his head absently. He was addressing Legolas by his title, which was a testament to how distracted he really was. "We took all the necessary precautions. Then again," he added, turning back once more after he had already prepared to leave, "what will happen, will happen. Our fate is in the hands of the One. Good night, my lord. Estel."

He gave the two of them a nod and walked off. After only a few yards the wind picked up once more, and Haldar broke in a jog, his dark hair whipping about his head as he hurried towards the centre of the camp. Legolas watched him go for a few moments before he turned back to Aragorn and shook his head.

"'What will happen, will happen'," he repeated, slight incredulity colouring his words. "Valar, if we thought like that, all of Mirkwood would already have been overrun by spiders and orcs and maybe even the black squirrels! Your lot are far too fatalistic, Estel."

"They aren't my lot," Aragorn protested softly, not looking up from where he was staring at the fire. "And sometimes, I wonder if they ever really were."

"Oh, they most certainly are," Legolas said, trying to hide the bright flare of concern that stabbed through him at his friend's words. This didn't sound like Aragorn at all. "They are obstinate, stubborn and prideful. Just like you."

"Thank you for pointing this out for me, my friend." Aragorn shook his head lightly, a small smile on his lips, but it did not reach his eyes and the sombre air around him did not diminish. "It is a rather accurate description; even I have to admit that. Or maybe _especially_ I have to admit that."

Legolas now frowned openly and looked from the dark, overcast sky to the man in front of him. If he knew Aragorn at all – and he liked to think that he knew him quite well –, this was going to take some time. The young ranger was in the most annoying of moods: The "I don't want to talk about it but I want you to ask me about it anyway until I give in and reluctantly tell you what is bothering me" mood, one that overcame him only very rarely. Mostly it didn't have the time to materialise anyway, since the twins were exceedingly good at sensing it and pre-empting it by forcing Aragorn to tell them what was wrong before it could get this far. It was something that would surely become a bone of contention sooner rather than later, namely in the very moment that Aragorn decided that he was too old to be nagged into telling his brothers everything they wanted to know and that they should bloody well mind their own business.

Finally deciding that Aragorn wouldn't agree to seek out shelter now and resigning himself to a wet evening, Legolas stepped closer and gracefully sank down on a big, jagged rock roughly opposite of the tree trunk Aragorn was sitting on. He might as well get comfortable for this, especially considering that both of them might actually drown in a downpour in the next half-hour or so.

"What has brought this on, Estel?" he asked, trying hard to see his friend's expression. He didn't know if the man did it on purpose, but his face was almost invisible due to the dancing shadows and the way he kept his head lowered. "I am sorry for what I said earlier, but someone had to do it."

Aragorn looked up, looking vaguely startled.  
"Earlier? You mean in the captain's tent? Don't be, Legolas. Someone had to, and you saying it saved the twins from straining a relationship that is already rather close to the breaking point."

"They have known Daervagor for a long time."

Judging by Legolas' voice alone, it was hard to decide if the words had been meant as a question or a statement. Aragorn shrugged, deciding to take it for the latter. Legolas didn't like admitting to ignorance – just like the majority of the elves (and especially wood-elves) he knew –, a tendency that had only grown stronger over the past weeks. Aragorn suspected that it was because Legolas, like Celylith and far more than the twins or even him, felt unbalanced and didn't know how to deal with the current situation.

Manwë's breath, the young man thought darkly. He wished he did.

"They have, at least in the eyes of Men. As far as I know, almost for his entire life."

Legolas did a quick calculation. He wasn't very adept at judging men's age – and rangers were even more problematic –, but that probably meant that the twins had known the charming captain for at least seventy or eighty years. He didn't understand how anyone could develop any kind of strong feelings for the captain – especially amicable ones –, but then again, there were a lot of things he didn't understand about the Noldor in general and the twins in particular.

"He is going too far," the wood-elf said, his voice far too calm and even for it to be either. "He is provoking you, Estel, all the time. And Eru alone may know why you let him, because I do not."

"Don't, Legolas." Aragorn shook his head sharply. "Just don't. It is far too complicated to explain, and it would take far too long."

"I am an elf, Estel," Legolas reminded him, one of his eyebrows raised almost mockingly. "If there is one thing we possess, it is time to listen to long-winded explanations."

"That, my friend, I do know." Aragorn lifted his head and smiled at him. "But I do not know how to explain it, and I do not have the energy to try."

Some of Legolas' frustration must have shown on his face – considering who his father was, it was probably most of it – and Aragorn continued before he could say something.

"Let it suffice to say, for now, that Daervagor would never do anything to harm me or to undermine my position in public."

"He doesn't have to!" Legolas exclaimed. The wind tore at his clothing and hair, blowing the fair strands about his head. "He is doing it in private all the time! He is openly disparaging you, Estel, and he doesn't care who sees it!"

"It's not like that," Aragorn protested softly. "He does not disparage me. He simply doesn't know how to deal with me, and I with him. He saw me only twice before my twentieth year, when I was about four and again when I was thirteen, and I did not know who he was. And the first time I did not even look at him and hid all the time behind Elrohir."

"You did?" Legolas asked, smiling in amusement despite the situation. His own childhood had been quite a long time ago, even for an elf, but somehow he had no trouble imagining Aragorn as a small child. He had probably been little more than huge grey eyes and a mop of dark, unruly hair.

"I did," Aragorn confirmed, an unbidden smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I begged _ada_ to send him away."

"Why?"

"He frightened me," the man said with a small shrug. "It was late afternoon, I think, and winter. It was already dark when he appeared. I was playing with Elrohir and maybe with Elladan, too, I don't remember, when he came out of the night like a spectre that Elladan had told me so much about, much to _ada's_ displeasure. I had got used to elves whose tread was quiet and calm and to soft Elvish voices. Suddenly there was this stranger in front of me, bearded and forbidding and clothed in such dark colours, and looked at me as if he knew me. I think I even screamed."

Legolas' smile widened.  
"He must not have been very pleased about that."

"I don't think he was." Aragorn's own smile had disappeared and he shook his head. "No, I don't think he was. He tried to talk to me, but I was too frightened – and I hardly understood him at first. He spoke Westron, which I had all but forgotten. All I had been hearing for two years had been Sindarin, after all."

"So what did he do?" Legolas asked. He assumed that it hadn't involved anything that had truly distressed Aragorn – the twins had been there, after all, and he simply couldn't imagine them tolerating any such thing when it involved a four-year-old child –, but with Daervagor, who knew.

"Nothing," Aragorn shook his head. "What could he have done? He was faced with a crying boy and at least one elf who stared at him as if he had just killed a fluffy baby rabbit just for spite. I was very busy hiding behind Elrohir, but I still remember Daervagor looking at me in the strangest way for a long time. By then _ada_ had joined us, and he just turned around and left. I didn't see him again for almost ten years, and when I did, I didn't pay him overly much attention. He was a ranger and therefore by default interesting, but there were many other visitors coming to Rivendell all the time, many of them of the Dúnedain. I did not know who he was."

"So that is the problem?" Legolas asked incredulously. "That you cried the first time you saw him after having been brought to Imladris when you were four years old? That you did not know him when you were thirteen?"

"No, of course not," Aragorn said, shaking his head again. "And yes, a part of it surely is."

"I … I fear I do not understand you, my friend. Is that what he told you over a year ago, during that hunting trip of yours? I will freely admit to not liking the man, but even I have trouble imagining that."

"What he told me and what our … disagreement was about does not matter right now," Aragorn said in a tense tone of voice that clearly stated that, contrary to his words, it did. "But…" he trailed off, searching for the right words. "It is like during a large family gathering, like the birthday of the old and beloved patriarch. The whole family is there, and suddenly you find yourself face to face with a man you have never met before and people tell you that you are related. You can see it in his eyes and you see yourself in his face, and you know without a doubt that it is true. And everybody, including the person you just met, looks at you as if you should feel something, as if you should _know_ him on some level, as if blood ties alone should make you feel something that is not there. It cannot be there – you just met that person a second ago! How could you have any kind of feelings for him? And, worst of all, _you_ expect it, too, and you start wondering why you feel nothing at meeting someone you should respect, if not love." He raised his head. "Do you know what I mean?"

"It … it has never happened to me, no." Legolas shook his head slowly. "As you know, mine is a small family. But I think I understand what you mean. But tell me, Estel, why would you think something like that? I think that is a very normal state of being, especially amongst humans. You had never truly met Daervagor until you were what, twenty-one? How could you have loved him?"

"I don't know," the man admitted. "But a part of me feels that I should have. He is family, after all."

"But you did not _know_ him," Legolas disagreed. "You had no memories of him. He was like a complete stranger to you. Why would you think that?"

"I am an orphan, Legolas," Aragorn reminded him. "I have never doubted my father's or my brothers' love for me nor the fact that none of them cared if I had been born to our family or not, but the thought was always there. What were my parents like? Was there anyone left of my family who remembered me? What would life have been like had my parents not died? Was there someone who would some day come looking for me to see how I was doing? I never wanted to leave my father or my brothers, but that did not stop me from wondering." He smiled somewhat bitterly. "'What if?', indeed. Those two words might very well be the two most dangerous words of the Common language."

Legolas was silent for a moment, trying to process what his friend had told him.  
"I see what you mean, Estel. I think I see the problem, or at least a part of it."

"No, you don't," Aragorn said so quietly that Legolas could hardly understand him. "I don't think anybody truly does, including the two of us."

"Dreaming about something is always easier than actually getting what you have been dreaming about," the fair-haired elf said with a small, fleeting smile. "That is something I, too, know very well. You always dreamed about meeting someone who was related to you by blood, someone of your human family, and then when you did he was not what you expected. It is normal that you are disappointed and confused, _mellon nín_."

"Ah, but there is the problem, my friend," Aragorn said, staring into the increasingly unsteady flames of the campfire. "He is exactly what I expected. The problem is that I am not what he did."

When it became clear that Aragorn did not intend to say more, Legolas shook his head and moved closer to the man, trying to see his face. His heart ached for his friend, but Aragorn was right, he did not fully understand what he was talking about, and most likely never would. But still, all of this was wrong. Worse, it was not healthy.

"So what do the two of you intend to do about this? Ignore the problem like the proverbial oliphaunt in the equally proverbial room?"

Even while Legolas was speaking the words, he saw that this was most likely really what Aragorn intended to do. It was a testament to his conflicted emotions and confusion that he was prepared to try and ignore the problem in the vain hope of it going away if he didn't pay it any attention. Aragorn only kept staring at the flames, and he couldn't help the small sound of disbelief that escaped his throat.

"Ai, Estel! That _is_ what you are doing, isn't it?"

"What _can_ I do?" the young ranger asked, his voice sounding slightly hollow, even though Legolas was ready to admit that he might have been imagining it. "I cannot change what and who I am, and what I am is a disappointment to him."

"He said that to you?" Legolas asked, fury and incredulity warring inside of him. Daervagor wouldn't have said that, he realised a second later. Not even he was that insensitive and bull-headed. Besides, the twins knew about all this, or so it seemed, and if the captain would have said something like this to their little brother without provocation, he was quite sure that they would have done something that would severely have strained diplomatic relations between the Dúnedain of the North and the Elves of Rivendell.

"No, of course not!" Aragorn looked almost offended, and Legolas mentally added it to his list of things he did not understand about this situation. "He would not say such a thing. He doesn't have to. Contrary to what you and my brothers seem to think, I can deduce a few things by myself."

"So he did not say it, but still you assume that he thinks so?" Legolas asked. "Come now, Estel. You can never just assume you know what someone thinks, you know that."

Aragorn would not meet his eyes, and the elf inwardly changed Aragorn's almost angry denial of 'Of course he didn't say it' to ' He didn't say it exactly like that'. The next time he met the dear captain, Legolas vowed to himself, he would have to hurt him. Aragorn could be incredibly easy to hurt when it came to matters concerning his family, and if Daervagor had done so out of blindness or disinterest, he would make sure that he regretted it, no matter what Aragorn thought about it. He was a wood-elf, and he had quite a lot of experience with getting rid of unwanted bodies.

"I know," Aragorn said obediently, a statement that was in stark contrast to the expression on his face.

Legolas was spared having to express his doubts by a large raindrop that hit his cheek with a wet, resounding noise. Having expected this for quite some time now, the elf raised his head to look at the dark sky, and that seemed to be the signal the rain had been waiting for. The heavens quite literally seemed to open and rain came pouring down. The overall effect was rather alike to a huge bucket of water being emptied over their heads, and for a second of shocked surprise Legolas could do nothing but sit at the campfire whose flames were rapidly being doused by the pouring rain. Then, however, reality reasserted itself, and with a half-suppressed curse he shot to his feet. It wasn't that he didn't like the rain – he did, especially during the summer –, but he was in no mood to get wet tonight. Besides, he doubted that rain was what Aragorn needed right now.

For that, however, it was already too late. Aragorn needed far more time than usual to gain his feet, and by the time he was standing unsteadily, both of them were already drenched. Legolas needed mere seconds to calculate the amount of yards they would have to cover before they reached the first tent – any tent, actually –, combine it with the strength of the rain and reach the conclusion that there was no way at all they would get back without drowning first. Aragorn stood next to him, blinking quickly as he tried to see something through the gloom, his dark grey shirt already completely dark with water, and Legolas made a decision. Taking the man's right arm, he turned him around and all but pulled him after him, making for the relative shelter that the huge tree standing about fifty feet to their right offered.

They managed to get there without falling, even though Legolas had to admit that it was a close thing. Even his elven eyes had trouble piercing the darkness, and Aragorn quite clearly couldn't see a thing. Without Legolas' hand to guide him, he would have stumbled a dozen times and would quite possibly have fallen at least twice. When they reached the relative dryness of the large canopy of the tree, Legolas let out a small sigh of relief and leaned back against the trunk. His eyes quickly wandered over the large branches of the tree, and he placed a hand against the bark in a gesture of thanks. These _Argonath_ were useful in many ways, it seemed.

Next to him, Aragorn was panting slightly, one of his hands lying over his wounded side. It took some seconds until his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, but when they did he could not help the small bark of laughter that escaped him. Legolas turned towards him with an expression of long-suffering suspicion on his face, blue eyes dilated in order to cope with the lack of light.

"What?"

"You!" Aragorn answered, grinning widely. "You look like a drowned rat!"

Legolas looked down at himself and had to admit that he most likely did. His green shirt was completely drenched, as were his breeches, and his leather boots were so wet they squelched wetly whenever he moved. His long blond hair clung in wet tendrils to his shoulders, neck and cheeks, and he could actually hear the water dripping down from him, forming little puddles.

"And you, my friend," he said with as much dignity as a half-drowned elf could muster, "look like a drenched … warg."

That Aragorn most definitely did – he was, if such a thing was even possible, even wetter than his elven friend. He was in fact so wet that one could see the bandage wrapped around his torso that was outlined by his wet shirt that clung to his skin, and every objective observer would have admitted that yes, he did look like a drenched warg. What Legolas didn't expect, however, was someone actually doing it.

"He is right. You do."

For half a second, Legolas couldn't quite understand where that strange voice had come from. Then he was moving, reflexes honed in countless years of combat and warfare jumping into action before he had fully understood what was going on. Within another second, Legolas had drawn one of his knives he carried at his belt, had turned towards the voice and had brought it down in a sweeping, graceful arc, stopping it an inch from the neck of the person who had so unexpectedly supported his position.

The man in question did the only sensible thing: He lifted his chin and held out his empty hands, the rest of his body stilling completely. It was Hírgaer, Legolas saw, who was looking only marginally drier than the two of them, and Legolas felt as if a cold breeze had suddenly touched his skin. The fair-haired man had always made him wary, but now he felt openly threatened by him and the teasing, mocking smile on his lips that he wore like other people would have worn a scowl. He did not reach for any weapons, though, and kept his hands well away from the sword hilt that was clearly visible at his left hip, and that was the only reason why Legolas managed to fight down his instincts that told him to attack or retreat out of harm's way.

The ranger must have sensed his discomfort, and the smile on his lips grew even wider. His lower lip was cut and bruised and there were a number of healing cuts running down the side of his face, souvenirs of the fight two days ago, and for some reason seeing the injuries only caused renewed unease to wash over Legolas.

"Rest easy, Master Elf." Hírgaer smiled again. "I assure you that I will not harm you."

"Oh, I _know_ that," Legolas said, his eyes narrowing. "But will you _try_?"

The mocking smile turned into a full-blown grimace. If Hírgaer felt in any way intimidated or frightened by the knife at his neck, he certainly did not show it.

"I could have tried ever since the two of you joined me here, my lord, and I did not. You did not notice me, and I would have had ample time to … try something."

If Aragorn hadn't been overcome by feelings that quite closely mirrored his friend's, he would have covered his eyes. There was nothing else the other ranger cold have said that was more guaranteed to enrage Legolas than to mock him or question the keenness of his senses. Hírgaer couldn't have found a better way to win Legolas' eternal enmity if he'd tried.

Predictably enough, the elven prince's eyes narrowed into thin slits. That, however, didn't stop him from shooting deadly glares at the ranger, and Aragorn would have been able to swear that the blade the elf was holding against Hírgaer's neck was slowly but surely moving closer to said neck. Not that there was much room left, that was.

"You are very welcome to try something now, Master Ranger." Legolas' voice was quite possibly the coldest whisper he had ever heard outside of Erestor's study.

"Ah, but that would be foolish," Hírgaer said, quite impervious to the not-so-very-thinly-veiled threat. "Never anger one of the Firstborn, that was what our father taught us."

"Too late."

Legolas' response was short and concise, and Hírgaer's lips stretched into a broad smile. He did not look as if the situation distressed him at all.  
"For that I do apologise, Master Elf. It was impolite of me to startle you so. May I?"

He gestured slightly with both hands, and after a pause that was just long enough to convey Legolas' doubts concerning the decision he was about to make the elf nodded. Hírgaer lowered his hands, still taking care not to make any sudden moves. He was very aware of the penetrating looks the fair-haired elf was shooting him that almost begged him to do something that would merit a violent response.

"Impolite, and unwise," Legolas added while the ranger adjusted his dripping wet cloak. "I could have killed you."

"No, my lord," Hírgaer said shortly, his eyes quickly wandering over Aragorn. "You couldn't have. You would not make a mistake like that."

Legolas raised an eyebrow, a mixture of annoyance and grudging amusement on his face.  
"You know that for a fact, do you?"

"Yes," the ranger said simply. "If there is one thing I can recognise, it is a fellow warrior, and a true warrior would never have allowed his blow to fall."

"My hand could have slipped," Legolas said, clearly unwilling or unable to leave it alone.

"True," Hírgaer admitted. "That would have been a miscalculation on my part, then."

"A good thing it didn't happen, then," Aragorn said firmly before Legolas could say more. The wood-elf, who was very aware of the fact that Aragorn only wanted to make sure he didn't make this situation any worse, stopped glaring at Hírgaer and started glaring at him instead. "Hírgaer. It is good to see you."

"And you, Estel," Hírgaer said with a nod that, for him, was downright amicable. "I heard you were up and about."

"I wanted to thank you," Aragorn went on, unperturbed. "You saved Amlaith's life and mine, too. If you hadn't come, I might very well be in an orc cave right now, and Amlaith would be dead."

"That is likely," the other ranger acknowledged with a complete lack of modesty that Legolas found intensely irritating. Truth to be told, he found a lot of things irritating about Hírgaer. "I did my duty, nothing more, nothing less. You would have done the same for me or any other ranger."

Aragorn nodded solemnly while Legolas looked almost openly doubtful. That was the nice thing about this situation, Legolas thought: He _could_ look doubtful if he wanted to. In a matter of weeks, he would leave this camp and would most likely not return for several years at least. Aragorn actually had to live with these people, and damned if Legolas knew how the man did it without actually going mad. He liked the Dúnedain, he really did. Their bravery called to him as did their sense of honour, their dedication to duty and, if he was honest, also their pride, but live with them? Valar, no. They were far too … strange.

"Nevertheless, I thank you," Aragorn said, interrupting this train of thought. "If you hadn't come looking for us…"

"I didn't come looking for you, Strider," Hírgaer interrupted him, absently pushing a strand of wet, dark-blond hair away from his bruised face. "I followed my brother. If he hadn't wanted to investigate the trail, it would never had occurred to me to follow it."

Aragorn nodded again, still smiling, even though even the fairest person would have had to admit that it was beginning to look slightly strained.  
"Then I will have to thank Ereneth the next time I see him."

"Do that," Hírgaer advised him shortly. "You can hardly miss him, tall as he is."

Legolas looked at the fair-haired ranger, doing his best not to let his puzzlement show. Hírgaer was arrogant and prideful, but this downright rude attitude of his he found very hard to understand. It wasn't that the man was only uncivil towards the two of them. With the possible exception of Ciryon, he had never seen him be truly friendly to someone else. Then again, Legolas' by default fair nature added, he had never seen anyone else be truly friendly to him or his brother, either.

Hírgaer noticed the searching look the elven prince gave him – such looks were hard to miss indeed –, and Legolas was treated to the rare sight of seeing him back down. The man averted his eyes and lowered his head, seeking to evade the elf's attention.

"I will leave you in peace, then," Hírgaer said with rather untypical politeness, and took a step away from the trunk.

"Oh, please don't, Master Ranger" Legolas said, an evil glint in his eyes. "It would be _impolite_ of us to let you walk back out into the rain, now wouldn't it? Besides, why would we need to be left in peace? We're having such a _nice_ talk, aren't we?"

Hírgaer, who could recognise a barb well enough if it was aimed at him, only gave him a nasty look that would have impressed and intimidated most people. Unfortunately for him, Legolas was not most people, or even most elves, for that matter.

"You are here in this kind of weather, therefore you wish to be left in peace," the ranger said almost brusquely. "As useful as the _Argonath_ are sometimes, a tent would be much drier, wouldn't you agree?"

"You call them that as well?" Legolas asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Ciryon came up with the name for them."

It was all that Hírgaer said, and his words and the completely blank tone of voice in which he spoke them served to mellow Legolas a little. The man had just lost a friend – from the looks of it, maybe even his only friend here – and they had just invaded the place he had chosen as a retreat. He would be a little testy as well under these conditions, even though that by no means excused the man's earlier slur against his abilities.

"So what are you hiding from, Master Elf?" Hírgaer went on, blindly destroying what little goodwill Legolas had been harbouring towards him by this implication that an elf – and a wood-elf to boot – would hide from something. "Or should I say from whom?

He pointedly looked past Legolas at Aragorn, one of his eyebrows cocked in a mixture of mocking and something like suspicion or knowledge, and Aragorn felt how a cold shiver ran down his back. He didn't know where he stood with this man and he doubted that he ever would, but Hírgaer was dangerous, that he knew without a doubt. He was a man you didn't push into a corner under any circumstances, because you simply didn't want to see what he would do when he was trapped.

"Lord Elrond's sons," Aragorn finally answered, deciding that the truth (partial or not) was by far the best solution here. "They are waiting in my tent to cram more potions down my throat. It is the kind of thing they enjoy."

Hírgaer's stern face softened somewhat, and something that looked suspiciously like a smile laid itself over his scratched, handsome features.  
"I think I know what you mean. It is something that my little brother enjoys as well – and most of the time he succeeds in making me take whatever potion the healers have concocted. I don't know which Vala thought it amusing to make the younger brother the taller one, but he or she and I will have to have a serious conversation about it one of these days. He has freakishly long arms, has my little brother."

Legolas, however, was quite unimpressed by his attempt at levity and gave the man a narrow-eyed look that didn't even try to look as if it wasn't hostile. He had seen that strange look Hírgaer had given Aragorn, and he hadn't liked it at all.

"Whom are you hiding from, then?" he asked bluntly. "I doubt that you came here in the rain because you liked the view."

For long moments, it didn't look as if Hírgaer was going to answer, not that Legolas had expected any such thing from him. The ranger didn't know them and, from the looks of things, also didn't like them, so why should he tell them anything? Then, however, Hírgaer's green eyes fastened on the grey shadows that were the trees around them, and a large smile spread over his face that made him look at least ten years younger.

"I like watching grey, blurry shadows," he said, amusement in his voice. "It's almost as interesting as watching a fish go round and round in a crystal bowl." He shook his head, and when he looked up his eyes were serious. "But to be honest, no, I do not come here for the view. My brother is on guard duty tonight; he left with Lhanton and the others. We are not separated often when assigned our duties, but it happens. I think the captain and the commander want to prove that they are treating us like everybody else and don't heed the fact that we are brothers." He smiled bitterly. "As if there was even the remotest chance of that."

"I would have thought that there are better places to wait for him than this one," Aragorn said, looking pointedly a raindrop that was running down a smooth branch next to his head. It was easily as large as a mid-sized coin. "Drier ones, too."

"Probably," Hírgaer admitted evenly. "But none as comfortable. There are some … problems between my brother and me and the rest from time to time, as you may have noticed." Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a quick look, and the calm look on the fair-haired man's face turned into something cold and dark. "If you have a question, you will have to go ahead and ask me."

"I think I will." Aragorn had abandoned all attempts at politeness and was going for blunt seriousness instead. "Why do you have these 'problems'?"

"Why should I tell you?"

There it was again, the mockingly raised eyebrow. This time again, there was a certain amount of something that almost looked like loathing on Hírgaer's face, and Legolas unconsciously shifted a little closer to his human friend. He wasn't afraid of this man, of course he wasn't, wasn't even truly afraid for Aragorn, but Hírgaer was the first man to truly unsettle him in quite a long time. Well, that was almost true, he amended a second later. There had been Cendan, the half-Easterling lieutenant of Girion, the madman they had run across last winter. He, too, had managed to disquiet him in a way he was loath to remember.

"Because I am tired of all this." Aragorn, Legolas decided, had apparently also abandoned all attempts at subtlety. Not that he could blame him; subtlety didn't seem to work very well on the Rangers as a rule. "Because I have almost been killed twice in less than a week, and because I have to know whom I can trust."

Hírgaer looked unconvinced, and so Aragorn continued, nothing but utter seriousness on his face.

"I grew up in Rivendell, Hírgaer. I know that I am not connected to Lord Elrond's family by blood, but that does not matter. I owe him and his sons everything, my life, my freedom and everything that I am now. I consider the twins the brothers that my parents could never give me. I would lay down my life for them and for my other companions. I need to know that I can trust the people at my back so I can have my head free to protect them and to make sure that the ones killing our people, killing your men, are stopped. I am a ranger like you, as you said, and I have the same duties and obligations that you do. More than that, I also have the same rights that you do. So yes, I ask you, what is going on between you and your brother and the rest of the company?"

Aragorn seemed to have judged the other ranger correctly, for the quite visible enmity on Hírgaer's face shifted into something (marginally) more accepting. He nodded grudgingly, clearly not happy about it but too sensible to refuse the request.

"It is nothing that would cause you such grief, Strider," he said. "And nothing because of which you would have to sleep with one eye open or worry for your companions. It is simply … a matter of different opinions."

"Different how?" Legolas asked.

"Some of the men believe that it is more important who your parents are than who you are," Hírgaer said slowly. "My brother and I happen to disagree."

"I'm afraid I do not understand." Legolas frowned, inwardly telling himself that he should get used to the feeling. He didn't understand quite a lot of what was going on around here. "You look different, yes, but…"

"'Different' is a very nice way to describe it," Hírgaer said, that bitter smile from earlier making a reappearance. He ran a hand through his wet, dark blond hair that looked even darker now. "Dúnedain don't have hair like this, Master Elf. It just doesn't happen. Not even Ereneth does; Eru alone may know how I happened."

"One of your parents is not of our people," Aragorn concluded quietly. "Your mother, I would say, since you joined the Rangers."

"Yes." Hírgaer nodded, his eyes not leaving their faces. "My mother was of the Rohirrim. Her hair was golden like wheat in the summer, and her eyes were blue, a real, deep blue, not grey. I look more like her, but my brother is more like her in spirit. He also speaks more of the language than I do; I could hardly do more than order an ale in a pub, and even that might result in me propositioning the barman."

"I see." Aragorn slowly nodded, and it was clear by the expression on his face that he did. Legolas didn't. "She followed your father north?"

"She did," Hírgaer said. "She came from a little village on the north-western edge of the Westemnet, the large grasslands north of Edoras. One of my father's journeys had led him there, and he took lodgings with her father, who owned an inn." His smile widened a little with real, if dark, amusement. "My father's parents had been telling him for years that he should look for a bride; he was in his fifties at that time and not yet married. Somehow I don't think they had a Rohirric girl in mind when they said that."

"She must have been very brave, to follow him into a strange country whose language and culture she didn't even understand."

Hírgaer shrugged at Aragorn's words, forced nonchalance on his face.  
"She was in love, and so was he. Her parents were not in favour of the union, but she convinced them at last. And no one ever said that the Rohirrim are not brave or bold or do not fight for what they want and love."

"I still do not see the problem," Legolas said. "So your mother was a woman of Rohan. What does that have to do with anything?"

Suddenly, Aragorn and Hírgaer both looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"There … well, there are those among the Dúnedain that believe that we should not mix with … other humans," Aragorn finally said. "That the bloodlines should be kept pure."

"You don't have to say it like that for my sake, Strider," Hírgaer said almost savagely. He turned to Legolas, cold anger in his eyes. "They don't believe the Dúnedain should mix with _lesser_ humans, with those whose ancestors were not of the three houses of the Edain."

"The Rohirrim share a distant kinship with us, or so people say," Aragorn said somewhat weakly.

"Maybe they do, maybe they don't." Hírgaer brushed his words aside. "It does not matter. They are not Númenóreans, and that is, as they say, that."

Legolas still looked somewhat confused, and so Aragorn took pity on him.

"Some people think that intermarrying with other humans would weaken us. From their point of view, they are right. We, the Dúnedain, are stronger than normal humans. We are more resilient to illness and even the elements, and we live longer. The Gondorians, our cousins in the South, did marry other men and still do, and some say that they are weaker for it, their strength and pride diminished. They attribute the weakness of Gondor to that fact, amongst others."

"I have always liked that line of argument," Hírgaer said with dark irony. "At least they managed to hold on to their realm, contrary to us."

Something that looked almost like pain flashed in Aragorn's eyes but was gone just as quickly.

"Here in the North such unions are rarer by far, but they happen," he continued. He searched for an example that would make the problem clearer to Legolas. "If you were to marry … say, one of the_ Avari,_ provided that they still exist and you could find one, what would your father say? Or the rest of Mirkwood?"

"I doubt that he would be pleased," Legolas said. A small smile spread over his face, and he added, "It could be worse, though. I could want to marry a Noldo."

Aragorn ignored his words with the ease that long practice brought and shrugged.  
"It is like that with the Dúnedain of the North, only worse. There are a lot of people who think that we should marry our own kind, no exceptions. Not many parents would allow their children to marry a man or woman living like we do anyway, in the constant danger of death and discovery by the servants of the Dark One, so it does not happen often. In fact," he nodded at Hírgaer, "you are the first ones I meet who are affected by this problem."

"'Affected'," the fair-haired ranger said spitefully. "That is a nice way of putting it. We had to learn early to ignore the looks and taunts and whispers behind our backs. For me it was harder than for Ereneth because it was and still is impossible to hide what I am, but even for him it was bad. His eyes are simply the wrong colour, as are mine. Not everybody thinks like that, of course, but there are enough. And my mother taught us that the best way to deal with them is to ignore them and not to rise to their bait."

"Your mother sounds like a wise woman," Legolas remarked softly.

"She was," Hírgaer agreed.

"Was?" the elf asked. "She is dead?"

Hírgaer gave him an unreadable look.  
"She married my father when she was nineteen, my lord, and followed him north. They had to wait for over ten years for a child, but in the end, I was born. That was in the year Arador became chieftain, the year after the Fell Winter. She died four years ago when she was seventy years old." He swallowed hard. "That is quite a respectable age for a … lesser human."

"I am sorry," Aragorn said simply.

"So am I, Strider," the other ranger said and inclined his head. "Sometimes I think that maybe they are right, and I hate myself for it. Seventy years – for a woman, who does not run the risk of being killed in battle, that is nothing! My father is a hundred and nine years old now, and is still healthy and strong. He will continue to be healthy and strong for many years to come, living each of them without the woman he loved more than anything else on this world. Was that truly worth it? I don't know."

"They believed that," Aragorn told him. "And that is the only thing that matters, isn't it?"

"Almost," Hírgaer said shortly. "The only other thing is my brother. I know that I cannot change the minds of the people that think that the two of us are a mistake of gigantic proportions and that would rather shake an orc's hand in friendship than allow us to court their daughters or sisters. I do not care. I care neither about their opinions nor about their looks or their words that they whisper just loud enough so I can hear it. But all this stops with my brother. They can say what they want about me, but who insults my brother, be it by word or by deed, should better possess a keen blade or a lot of friends to aid him, and all here know it."

He smiled lopsidedly.

"There are always those that do not care or forget about it, of course, and that is why there are … problems sometimes. It does not get any further than that, though, so you can rest easy at night, Strider. This will not cause a problem."

"What does the captain do to stop this?" Aragorn wanted to know. "He _does _do something, doesn't he?"

"Of course." Hírgaer looked almost offended. "Captain Daervagor is a fair man and no hypocrite. He would never let one of his men be attacked for anything but dereliction of duty. But there are limits to what he can do, and what we will let him." He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. We are used to it, Ereneth and I, and need no one's protection. Contrary to what this might have sounded like, the majority of the men think that all this is ridiculous. We do have friends."

"Men like Ciryon," Legolas said softly.

"Yes." Hírgaer nodded his head, his face turning expressionless once more. "Men like him, or Haldar or Lhanton or Ferneth. Young Halbarad, too, even though his mouth is too quick for his brain sometimes."

For a few moments, none of them spoke, but then Hírgaer pushed himself off the trunk of the tree, leaving behind a dark, wet shape where his body had been.

"Now that I have told you my life story, I think _I_ need some peace. Do not worry for Lord Elrond's sons, Strider; none of this will pose a threat to them. Mostly it is not even said out loud. Despite everything, we are all rangers and fight the same darkness, and none of the men would ever forget that." He gave the two of them a curt nod. "A good night to both of you."

"I know that," Aragorn agreed, watching how the other ranger turned around and walked off, pulling his hood over his wet, fair hair. "Not worrying for them, though … well, I think that would be quite impossible."

"Well, yes." Hírgaer shrugged, turning half around. "That's how it is with brothers, isn't it?"

He stepped away from the shelter of the tree and disappeared behind the sheet of falling rain, the sound of his footsteps almost immediately being masked by the sound of the water hitting the ground. Legolas looked after him for a while longer yet, tracking his movement through the thundering rain until he passed from sight, before he turned back to his human friend, his forehead creased thoughtfully.

"I know I have said it before, Estel, but…"

"Don't say it. I know," the young ranger said, leaning tiredly back against the huge tree. "Rangers are strange."

"You are."

"That we are, my friend." Aragorn closed his eyes. "Varda's domes above, that we are."  
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This, Skagrosh mused, had not exactly gone according to plan.

He didn't care about that overly much – it had, after all, not been his plan –, but he knew the Master did. And the Master would not be very happy about their failure.

Blinding pain ripped through his body, eerily reminding him of the one time when he had been young still and had foolishly stepped out of the cave his horde had been hiding in and into the full light of the damned sun. Skagrosh roared and lashed out, hitting the smaller orc in front of him with an iron-gloved hand and neatly sweeping it off its feet. The orc flew through the air and hit the rough stone wall with a very satisfying thud, and the yowl of pain that escaped its lips was enough to make the agony a bit more bearable for a few moments.

The other orc picked itself up and slunk off, mumbling curses under its breath and giving its leader frightened glances, and Skagrosh turned his attention to the bleeding hole in his left side. The other orc had been working on removing the arrow that had pierced the ill-fitting metal armour and which had been ripped from the wound by Skagrosh's impatient move. Thick, dark blood and yellow pus flowed from the gash, but even that pain was better than the agony that had been tormenting him before. Damned be the elves and their thrice-cursed weapons!

They had been rushing from cave to cave and from hole to hole for two days, trying to stay ahead of the _tarks_, and this had been the first time they had had time to stop for the day. The days before they had been trying to find their way through the maze of tunnels that had become their hiding place. The map the master had given him had served them little – just who was supposed to understand all those squiggly little lines? The others were therefore – understandably – nervous and irritable, resulting in him having to knock together a few heads every few hours.

The arrowhead lay on the ground where the other orc had dropped it, black blood staining the broken stub of the shaft that was still connected to it, and Skagrosh scowled at it. He lashed out with one booted foot and kicked it into a fissure, unable to even bear the look of it. He would have liked nothing better than to get his hands on the pointy-eared little tree-lover who had shot him, but, well, he would, sooner or later. The master had told him about the elves' presence in a very strange tone of voice that he couldn't have deciphered even if he'd tried, and had also told them that they were, unfortunately, not likely to leave.

Skagrosh didn't see a problem there. In his opinion, it gave him more opportunities to get his hands on one of them, preferably the one who had shot him. He grinned darkly. Even if he only got another one, he didn't care. An elf was an elf, and he could only assume that one would scream as prettily as the other.

Skagrosh carefully probed the wound, wincing slightly as his metal-plated gloves bit into the edge of the gash. By the great eye, _someone_ would be paying for this!

Pleasant thoughts of revenge filled his mind as he grasped the small, wooden box next to him and dipped a finger in the dark, viscous fluid in it. It dripped down his glove in long, slimy strands but he ignored it, smearing the salve on the open wound. For a second, it burned like fire, but then the pain dulled and turned into a faint, cold ache. The blood stopped flowing almost immediately, and Skagrosh sighed inwardly. The injury wasn't very deep or dangerous, but who knew what might have happened if that accursed arrow had remained inside the wound any longer.

And while he had no doubts that there were several members of the horde who would greet his death with glee, he was by no means ready to accommodate them – especially not when, for once, his duty was this satisfying. Getting shot full of holes now and then was a small price to pay for that.

Skagrosh closed the small box with a care of which most people would have thought an orc impossible and pushed it to the side, regaining his feet. The only thing that had been keeping him on his feet for the past two days were the dark brews they had carried up from the south, and he pulled the small, earthenware bottle from his belt and took a deep draught. He immediately felt how the pain in his side lessened even further and the tiredness in his body was pushed back, and he took a deep breath and grinned. This could turn out to be a good night, after all. He might take a few of the lads, go outside and see if there was anything worth killing and…

A shout interrupted his thoughts just before he could get to the really interesting part. Under any other circumstances, Skagrosh would have been furious that someone had defied his very unambiguous order and had actually raised his voice, but this particular shout he knew very well. It was the shout of someone who had got in the way of the master when he was in a particularly bad mood and had just had one or more (hopefully not too important) parts of his anatomy removed.

Before he could do anything, the master came stalking down the corridor, heading towards him unerringly, and Skagrosh absently wondered who of the little maggots had told him where he was. Probably Grashók, he decided; that worm had been eyeing his position for some time now. He didn't have the time to think more, because suddenly the master was standing in front of him, menace surrounding him like the folds of his dark, hooded cloak that slowly settled down as he stopped moving. Skagrosh could feel how he started to tremble and couldn't do anything against it.

"This," the master finally said in a very calm tone of voice, "didn't really go according to plan, now did it?"

"Wasn't our fault, sir," Skagrosh immediately said, lowering his head and adopting as submissive and non-threatening a manner as he could. "We had the two rangers, sir, we did! But then…"

"Then?" the other asked, the word spoken silkily.

"Then the other one appeared," Skagrosh said almost sulkily, like a child who had had a long-coveted toy snatched away again. "Out of nowhere, like these filthy _tarks_ so often do. We would have taken him with us, just like you ordered, sir, but then we were ambushed by the elves. We had to retreat, and the three of them escaped in the chaos."

"Ah." It was all the other being said for a long time before he cocked his head to the side, and even Skagrosh, who was by no means blessed with an overabundance of imagination, could fancy that he could see his eyes blazing in the darkness of the hood. "So let me summarise this. You had the chance to take the one I wanted, and instead of killing the other two and getting back here as quickly as possible, you decided to linger and play with them until their comrades had caught up with them to free them?"

"It was bad luck, Master," Skagrosh began. "I had some of the lads stand guard. No one came up the road, that blond worm appeared out of nowhere! We couldn't have known that he…"

"Oh, but you could have," the master pointed out, still very calm and composed. "You could have posted guards in the East as well, instead of only in the South and West. South-east there is a ranger guard post, by the little brook. I _told_ you that, orc."

There were times when defiance and disagreement were a guarantee for death or worse, and Skagrosh had become very adept at sensing when one of them had come. He only ducked his head even lower, all his sensing prickling at the acute sense of danger that emanated from the dark-clothed figure in front of him.

"Yes, Master."

"And then, when you were discovered, you decided to retreat. Retreat! You outnumbered them more than five to one! You should have bloody well slaughtered the lot of them!"

The orc blinked, startled.  
"We didn't…"

"Oh yes, you did!" The master's voice sounded icy. "Do not presume to tell me what happened. I _know_ you did!"

"Didn't want to risk capture or exposure, sir," Skagrosh mumbled when it became clear that the master expected some sort of explanation. "You warned us about the elves, sir, didn't want to give those damned tree-huggers the chance to follow us. You can never know, sir, not with elves."

"Exposure?" The hooded figure stood very still. "Exposure?! We couldn't be more exposed if you turned up on the ranger camp's doorstep, Skagrosh! _How could they not know we are here?!_"

There was nothing safe to say to this, at least nothing Skagrosh could think of, and so he remained silent. The Master hardly seemed to notice and continued speaking, slowly building anger beginning to fill the cavern.

"You all but handed yourselves to them on a golden platter. You failed your mission. You killed the wrong ones, didn't kill the ones you should have killed, and blew our cover, the cover I have been working on for the past years, to smithereens. And then you retreated from a battle any half-witted and one-eyed leader would have won, elves or no elves. Did I leave anything out?"

Skagrosh mutely shook his head, and didn't even have the time to be surprised when he felt strong hands grab him and slam him against the nearest wall. He squealed in pain as his wounded side hit the hard rock, but the sound of distress quickly died as the master's steely forearm pressed against his throat, lifting him even higher into the air. Anger and menace poured off the other in waves, and the orc could only stare at the utter blackness that was the shadowed oval of the other's hood.

"I said," the master said in a deceivingly gentle tone of voice, "did I leave anything out, _snaga_?"

The master understood their tongue well enough, Skagrosh was aware of that, but he did not speak it as a general rule. That he did so now was not a good sign, and Skagrosh felt how his fear grew stronger. His superior, however, did not seem to expect an answer, because he increased the pressure on the orc's throat ever so slightly and leaned closer.

"You have disappointed me, Skagrosh. You have disappointed me bitterly. I do not wish to work with you any more than you wish to work with me. I would like nothing better than to finish this accursed mission and return home. I do not enjoy any of this at all. Neither of us has a choice, however, and until we receive new orders, it is our duty to see that our mission is fulfilled."

The orc dangling above the ground tried to nod but found it impossible with a rock-hard forearm pressed against his throat, and so settled for a wide-eyed stare of agreement.

"The plan has not changed," the master went on. "I still want the same thing, from the same men. This last … episode … was a mistake, yes, but there is nothing to be done about it now. What is done, is done. There will be other chances, no matter what safety measures they come up with. Not even Captain Daervagor can be everywhere at once and protect his men at all times. Sooner or later, someone will make a mistake, and when that happens, we will be there to seize the opportunity."

The cloaked being paused for a second, apparently not even seeing the way Skagrosh squirmed and struggled for air.

"But the situation has changed. They know what is going on now, or if they don't they soon will. They found the last one, the one you left south of the camp." If Skagrosh hadn't been fighting for every wisp of air and had been feeling particularly suicidal, he might have thought about pointing out that it had been the master's idea to leave the _tark's_ body there instead of disposing of it in an … easier manner. He didn't, though, and wisely remained silent. "So, we already _are_ exposed. The rules of the game have changed, but not the objective. You will stay here for the next day at least, until I can find out more about their plans and find a more permanent hiding place. I do not want to see any of your men outside, and, by the great eye, if you do not heed this order you will regret it. Is that completely and perfectly understood?"

Proper motivation made all the difference, and Skagrosh nodded frantically.

"Good," the other said in an almost friendly tone of voice. "I would have hated to think that we do not understand each other in this regard." He was about to drop the orc he was effortlessly keeping pinned against the wall but seemed to remember something at the last second, causing him to hitch Skagrosh further up the rocky surface. "One other thing, however."

Before Skagrosh had grasped what was going on, a lightning-quick movement brought the master's hand up, giving him the very brief chance to see something gleaming descend towards his face. In the next instant, a hot, blinding stab of pain went through him that seemed to coincide with the shriek torn from his throat. A rush of something hot and sticky ran over his face and the side of his neck, and the orc could only stare at one of his ears that was lying on the dusty ground in front of him surrounded by a dark pool of blood.

Suddenly the master's concealed face was in front of his own, and all pain disappeared in face of the pure menace that emanated from the shadowed oval of his hood.

"You made a mistake, _snaga_," the master told the whimpering orc calmly. "It is your first mistake. Since I am not averse to clemency, you pay for it with only an ear. Besides, I would hate to have to talk to yet another of your useless horde." He leaned even closer, and the shadows that the heavy folds of the cloak cast onto his face diminished enough to show a mouth twisted into a dark smile. "The next time I will not be so lenient, however. Make any further mistakes and you shall pay for them much more dearly."

He released the orc, turned away and walked off, the blood-stained dagger disappearing under his cloak in a movement almost too quick for the eyes to follow. One after the other, the grey, hideous faces of the horde appeared at the edges of the cavern's entrance, showing varying degrees of fear and glee, and Skagrosh, sitting slumped on the hard ground only inches away from his severed ear, told himself savagely through the haze of pain that someone, somewhere would be paying for this.

Preferably one of the elves or one of those pretty little _tarks_ that had escaped them so narrowly, but then again, he was not a picky orc.

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**TBC...**

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_dúnedain (pl. of dúnadan) – 'Men of the West', rangers  
mellon nín (Sindarin) - my friend  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
Argonath (S.) - The 'two noble stones', the statues that guarded the passage of the Anduin north of the Falls of Rauros. In this case, a nickname for two large, man-like trees that 'guarded' the eastern entrance to the ranger camp  
Avari (Quenya) – 'The Unwilling', those of the Elves of Cuiviénen that refused the summons of the Valar, did not journey west towards Valinor and remained in the dark lands of Middle-earth. Some of those were later corrupted by Morgoth and turned into orcs  
tarks (sg.: tark) (Black Speech) - Man of Gondor/of Númenórean heritage  
snaga (B. S.) - 'slave', used of the lesser breeds of orcs_

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Again, sorry for keeping you waiting for so long. I hope the length of the chapter has made up for it, at least a bit. You know, looking at all this from this point of view, I have to admit that I am beginning to feel rather sorry for Skagrosh. Can't help the fact that he's a demented, twisted creature of Evil, now can he? •shakes head sadly• He's misunderstood, that's all. Misguided sympathy for evil creatures aside, stay tuned for the next chapter, which should be here faster than the last one – that should, Elbereth be my witness, not be TOO hard. It's going to be interesting, since a lot of things don't go according to plan – once again proving the fact that What Can Go Wrong, Will Go Wrong –, a certain pair of wood-elves get into trouble, and Aragorn is having another ... episode. And that's a nice term for it. •evil grin• As always, reviews are loved and adored. Thanks in advance!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**As mentioned above, the review replies will be slightly late this time – I should be able to get them done by Tuesday. I apologise for the inconvenience thus caused and also to those to whose reviews I will be unable to respond due to a lack of valid email addresses. Thanks!**


	18. Come To the Edge

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**It's a miracle! After less than a month - boy, this is getting really sad, it's beginning to take ages! - a new chapter is already here! I've certainly lowered my standards... And I wasn't robbed, nothing was stolen, and I haven't been otherwise inconvenienced. Well, our washing machine just broke, but we've still got warranty, so that should be okay. I hope. I really don't have the money to pay for a new one.**

**So, there's nothing much to say at all! The spy is a problem, of course, as Captain Obvious ... um, Legolas already pointed out. Don't worry, though. Nothing will happen to any of them, nothing at all. •readers look unconvinced• What, you don't believe me? You guys are far too suspicious, really... Hírgaer has indeed a reason for being like he is - that doesn't make him an inch more likeable, of course. Poor him...**

**All right, without any further ado, I give you chapter .. 18, yes, that's it. Due to popular demand, Lúthien is being discussed, yay! She doesn't make an appearance, though - I think Celylith is still afraid of Legolas' reaction. Apart from that, Elladan and Aragorn have a little ... discussion, so do a few other people, and Celylith and Legolas have a little chat and finally come to the conclusion that they've really just something incredibly stupid. Which is nothing new, really. Oh, and there was this other thing ... what's it called again ... cliffy! Yes, that's it! •evil smile•**

**Enjoy and review, please! **

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Chapter 18

"There you are!"

The comment – nay, the shout, really – made Aragorn freeze in a very reprehensible kind of way that would have convinced even the most well-meaning observer of his guilt. There would probably have been some disagreement about what exactly he was guilty of, but everybody would have agreed on the point that he must be guilty of _something_.

Hoping that he didn't look as shame-faced as he feared, Aragorn slowly turned around, doing his best to paste an innocent smile – or at least an innocent look – onto his face. He really had to ask Legolas how he did that, he decided inwardly; the elven prince was very good at smiling at people he secretly loathed and projecting the feeling that he was not only overjoyed to see them, but also considered them the most interesting conversational partners he'd ever had.

Come to think of it, Erestor was probably even better at that, but he very much doubted that his father's advisor would be willing to teach him this particular skill.

The person who caught up with him a second later seemed to be of a similar opinion, for he narrowed his eyes at Aragorn's – admittedly rather pitiful – attempt to look harmless and innocent.

"Just where do you think you are going?" Elladan asked. His tone of voice clearly suggested that he was an elf who was clinging to the last shreds of his patience and that Aragorn was merrily sawing away at them.

Aragorn desperately tried not to look like a man who was evading his brothers and friends in the rather vain hope of escaping yet another medical procedure he didn't need or want.

"Why?" he asked, clearly trying to win some more time. "And where is Elrohir?"

"Having a friendly little chat with Legolas and Celylith," the older twin said. He saw Aragorn's horrified expression, and hurried to add, "They are only talking, I swear. They are enjoying themselves. They looked as if they were entertaining themselves quite well when I left them."

Aragorn snorted.  
"In this part of Arda, _murder_ is considered a form of entertainment."

"I am hurt, Estel," his brother said in a not very convincing manner. "You know that we would never jeopardise the peace between our realm and that of King Thranduil." He wrinkled his forehead. "It would be politically inopportune at this point in time, I believe, and _ada_ would kill us."

Aragorn grinned evilly, allowing himself to feel a small measure of satisfaction. He had learned a few things over the last couple of years, and one of them was misdirection.  
"I wouldn't worry about _ada_ if I were you, dear brother. I would worry about Erestor. You would destroy that scheme for the domination of all of Arda that he has been working on for decades."

"So you have been suspecting that as well, have you?" the elf asked.

"It is the only logical explanation for a lot of things."

"Very true," Elladan admitted with a small shudder that was not at all faked. He frowned and narrowed his eyes at the young man standing in front of him. "Don't change the subject. Where are you going?"

Aragorn winced inwardly. So much for his wonderful ability to misdirect.  
"To … visit … Ráca?" he finally offered haltingly.

Elladan didn't look too impressed by that, mostly because the young ranger had already used the excuse of having to visit his horse yesterday. "And that visit is going to take at least three hours, am I right?"

"Well," Aragorn began with a small smile that aimed for innocent charm and missed it by a good yard or two, "I was more thinking about two…"

He trailed off when he saw the seriously unamused expression on his elven brother's face, who didn't even have to say a single word to convey his displeasure and disbelief. For a second, Elladan only looked at him, but then the elf began to smile. It was a smile a warg might have given a fawn it had just cornered, all fake friendliness and gleaming teeth, and Aragorn had to fight down the instinctive urge to bolt. Elladan was _not_ going to try and eat him, he told himself firmly.

"Well, that sounds like a _splendid_ idea to me," Elladan said, beaming at him in a way that reinforced said urge even more. "You should most definitely go. Here," he reached into a half-open bag that was dangling from his left hand and withdrew a green and red apple, "give this to Rashwe for me. You know how I adore him."

Aragorn automatically took the apple from his brother's hand, something that didn't stop him from staring at him with wide eyes. He couldn't have looked more shocked if the elf had just happily told him about his firm intention to publicly declare his love and adoration for all things Silvan.

"You … want me to go?" he asked finally. He was nothing if not a fair man, and he would give Elladan another chance before he decided that his big brother had been possessed by some kind of evil entity and yelled for help.

"Oh, most certainly." Elladan nodded at him, still smiling that maniacal smile of his. "I wouldn't dream of putting any obstacles in your way. Have fun."

Aragorn had grown up in the firm and often-proved knowledge that that kind of smile on one of the twins' faces was never a good thing and that if it appeared, you ought to do one of three things immediately: One, hit them over the head with something heavy, two, go and tell Elrond, or three, hide as quickly as you could. That, of course, placed him in a quandary: His father was many miles away, he didn't have any kind of heavy instrument nearby, and hiding would lose him whatever respect he had managed to win from his fellow rangers. To the best of his knowledge, there wasn't anyone around, since most had already left for their daily assignments, but that didn't change anything.

After a second of doubt, Aragorn decided to ignore the problem and do the only other thing he could: Trust in his luck.

"Thank you," he said, still eyeing his brother suspiciously. Trusting in your luck and behaving like a complete idiot were two very different things, after all. "I will be going, then."

"Do that, _muindor nín_," Elladan encouraged him.

Aragorn gave him a hard look and turned around, almost willing to believe that, for once, the Valar might be smiling upon him, when a steely hand closed around his shoulder and stopped him in mid-step, dashing all his tentative hopes. Luck, he thought disparagingly. What luck?

"…after we've had a look at you," the dark-haired twin clarified. "And here I thought that to be self-evident."

For a second, Aragorn didn't move, trying to come up with a way to escape his brother's clutches. It had been four days since the fight on the road, and he was healing quickly. He really, really was. But somehow it seemed to him that his brothers were fiercely determined to ignore this very obvious and unmistakable fact – no one would ever accuse them of not having an overabundance of willpower, that much was certain –, which resulted in him slowly beginning to lose his patience and his temper.

They meant well, he told himself firmly for about the hundredth time today as he slowly turned around. They really did.

"You had a look at me yesterday," he said as evenly as he could. "You poked and prodded me, ripped off half of the skin of my torso, and forced me to drink some vile potion whose exact contents I still refuse to contemplate. I think that is quite enough to last me for at least another two days."

Elladan shook his head mournfully, as if he couldn't believe that his little brother was being this naïve. He also didn't remove his hand from his shoulder.  
"You were stabbed by an orc, Estel. Considering how often this kind of thing happens to you, I would have thought that you know the procedure by now."

"I know that I was stabbed by an orc, Elladan," Aragorn said irritably. "I was there. It was a rather memorable experience, and not one I am likely to forget in the near future."

Something that looked rather like guilt flashed over the twin's features, but the determination in his eyes did not diminish.  
"I am quite aware of that, Estel. I do, however, not see how you can treat this so lightly. Even if the scimitar wasn't poisoned…"

"It wasn't."

"…you know how filthy orc blades are," Elladan finished his sentence. "Eru alone knows what kind of dirt was on it. You have to be very, very careful, or you might contract blood poisoning. Or some other infection might spread, or…"

"I know, Elladan," Aragorn interrupted him before his brother could enumerate all the horrible consequences that might befall a man stabbed by an orc blade. "I vaguely remember my training in the healing arts, too."

"You are human, Estel," Elladan retorted, his voice low and his eyes serious. His grip on Aragorn's shoulder tightened for a second before he could get himself back under control. "You are far more vulnerable to such things than us."

"And you think I do not know that?" the young ranger asked, unable to hide his annoyance and mild incredulity. "How, after twenty-one years spent in Rivendell, could I not be aware of this tiny, unimportant fact?" He took a deep breath to calm himself and added, "I may be human, Elladan, but I am not a child anymore. Nor am I made of crystal or some equally fragile substance. I know the limits of my body as well you know yours, and I also know the weaknesses of my race. I will tell you this one more time, and one more time only: I am _fine_."

Elladan looked at him for what felt like an eternity, his eyes calm and assessing. He seemed to have found what he had been looking for – even though it obviously did not please him –, and he slowly withdrew his hand.

"Very well," he said, inclining his head courteously in a manner that was utterly sincere and equally reluctant. "I trust your judgement, Estel. I would, however, be pleased if you would let us change the bandage this evening. You know how important this is, and I doubt that you could do it on your own without causing yourself unnecessary pain and inconvenience."

For the second time in less than five minutes, Aragorn was rendered speechless. He had expected quite a lot of reactions from Elladan, among them the elf giving him pleading, disapproving looks until he caved in or even Elladan hitting him over the head and throwing him over his shoulder to carry him off to that lair of theirs. What he hadn't expected was reasonable agreement.

Well, of course he hadn't expected reasonable agreement. He was talking about one of the twins here.

"Thank you," he finally said when he had managed to get his initial surprise under control. "I … yes. Tonight would be good."

"Don't be so surprised, Estel," Elladan said with a small, almost sad smile. "You are an adult in the eyes of your kind. Elrohir and I are aware of that, even though it may not always seem like it. We have no wish to tell you how to live your life." His smile widened. "You wouldn't listen to us anyway."

"Of course I would listen to you," Aragorn protested. "I value your counsel and I always will. But I am grown, Elladan, if not in your eyes then in the eyes of my people."

"Oh, you have grown," Elladan admitted. "A lot, and the both of us are very proud of what you have become. But we worry about you, and that is the reason why our concern may seem … bothersome to you sometimes. It is something neither of us can help."

Aragorn wanted to protest that he didn't think his brothers' worry bothersome, but for that he was far too honest a man. Besides, Elladan knew him far too well to believe anything he said.

"I know that," he said, avoiding his elven brother's eyes. This was as good a time to bring up a topic that had been bothering him for some time now, but that didn't meant that he liked doing it. "And I worry about you, no matter how laughable that may seem to you."

"Your worry could never seem laughable to me, Estel," the elf said, shaking his head. "Never. You know that."

Aragorn didn't answer and merely shrugged in agreement.

"As I said, I understand that," he continued. "And I am thankful for your support. But," he raised his eyes and looked straight at the twin, "I do not need your help with Daervagor. Moreover, I do not want it. I am perfectly capable of dealing with this problem on my own."

"Are you?" This time, there was disbelief and something else, something darker, in Elladan's faint smile. "That is good to hear."

Aragorn couldn't help but bristle.  
"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know very well what it is supposed to mean," Elladan told him firmly. "The two of you have been dancing around this problem of yours for years now. I had not really expected more from Daervagor – he can be astonishingly stubborn and idiotic from time to time –, but I had really thought you knew better."

"Oh, and your way of dealing with the problem is so much better, is it?" Aragorn said challengingly. "Accusing him in front of his own men of treason and disloyalty to the alliance – that works much better, you are right."

"I never accused him of treason." Elladan shook his head, a little taken aback by the man's vehemence.

"You didn't have to!" Aragorn exclaimed, but checked his voice as he realised how loudly he had been speaking. "You almost challenged him to a fight! And in front of everybody else, too!"

"I wasn't about to do that," Elladan said in a low tone of voice that came suspiciously close to a growl. "It would have been hardly fair."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.  
"Unfairness is not something that has stopped you in the past."

"I resent that," Elladan began, wondering just when this conversation had taken a right turn and had headed off into this highly dangerous territory. "Daervagor has been my friend for almost as long as your father. I would never wish him harm. But since he _is_ my friend, I also consider it my right – my duty, even – to tell him when he is wrong about something."

"Not in this case," Aragorn said uncompromisingly. "You are pushing me towards an edge, Elladan, both of you. Your interference will change nothing. No, I am wrong, forgive me: It will make everything only worse."

"You are my brother, Estel," the elf said. His expression clearly said that he was reaching the ends of his patience and that he would not tolerate further discussion about this subject. "You are _our_ brother. Who attacks you, attacks us. We will not suffer such things in silence, not even when they involve Daervagor."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed in anger and annoyance.  
"And just what happened to 'you are an adult'?"

Elladan's own eyes were little more than thin slits by now, and the two of them merely glared at each other, looking rather like a pair of very angry and particularly cold-eyed snakes. Things would surely have got even uglier and at least one of them would have said something he would have regretted later, if they had not interrupted by a shout behind them that brought them out of their trance-like state.

"Strider! There you are!"

If this was going to end like the last time he had heard someone yell his name – which would be Elladan not even ten minutes ago –, this was indeed turning out to be a bad day, Aragorn decided darkly. He didn't really understand how they had got to this point, but what he did know was that Elladan was being obstinate on purpose. Well, maybe not obstinate, really, but he just wasn't listening!

With a last, dark look at his elven brother that clearly said that this wasn't over yet Aragorn turned around, schooling his expression. The last thing he wanted was scare off one of his fellow rangers. They had enough things to worry about already. It was quite a good thing that he had strived for a calm expression, as it turned out. Coming towards them were Halbarad and Lhanton, the former smiling openly, and Aragorn would have hated to scare either of them (even though Celylith would most likely have approved in Lhanton's case). Trailing behind them at some distance was Serothlain, followed by – Elbereth save him – Amlaith.

Aragorn forced himself to keep up his welcoming smile and sighed inwardly. The very, very last thing he needed now was having to deal with an ill-tempered, suspicious and openly insulting man like Amlaith.

"And Lord Elrohir, too," Halbarad went on, seemingly oblivious to the tension that hung between the elf and the ranger. "Good morning, my lord."

He gave Elladan a small bow that was mirrored by Lhanton – he himself didn't seem to merit such an act of courtesy, Aragorn noted with some amusement. Amlaith and Serothlain, who arrived a moment later, merely nodded at the elf and the younger ranger. In Serothlain's case, Aragorn could understand it very well – the man's grey eyes were dark and sorrowful, and his face was set into a dark, tightly controlled, emotionless mask. Amlaith, however, was a different case. The look he gave Elladan was respectful, if definitely not even friendly, while the one he gave Aragorn was anything but. Aragorn sighed inwardly. Amlaith had lost his best friend, just like Serothlain had, he told himself firmly. His ill temper and unfriendliness were understandable.

The only problem was that he had already been displaying that kind of behaviour even _before_ they had found Baran.

"I am sorry, young Halbarad," Elladan said, smiling at the captain's son with real affection. "But my brother is with our two wood-elven friends. I am Elladan."

Halbarad looked mortified before he regained control of his expression.  
"I am sorry, my lord, I did not mean to…"

"Be at peace, son of Daervagor," the elf said and shook his head lightly. "It is a common enough mistake. By now, we are quite used to it. No offence was taken."

"So that is where Lord Celylith is, then," Lhanton commented thoughtfully, an expression of such innocence on his face that his fellow rangers immediately looked at him suspiciously. "I have been meaning to talk to him for some time now. There is a certain … detail … I wish to discuss with him."

Halbarad muttered something under his breath that Aragorn couldn't understand, but Elladan obviously could, judging by the small smile that he almost couldn't hold back. Before the young ranger could say anything, Serothlain had taken a step forward, apparently unable to muster the patience clearly necessary for this conversation.

"For that it is too late now, I fear," he said, his voice calm and a far cry removed from the earlier, teasing tone that one had been able to hear from him only a few days ago. "We are already late. The commander wishes to leave in a few minutes with the captain; he bade us ask you and your friends if you still intended to set out with us today, my lord."

His words were clearly directed at Elladan who didn't look very surprised at them either. Aragorn vaguely remembered that the twins had acquiesced to patrol one of the north-eastern sectors and Legolas and Celylith another one roughly to the west. He had been contemplating accompanying one of their parties, a possibility that, right now and in light of the conversation he'd had with Elladan, didn't seem all that attractive anymore.

"We do," Elladan affirmed with a small nod of his head. "My brother and the Lords Legolas and Celylith were preparing their equipment and the horses when I left them no more than ten minutes ago. They should be more than ready now."

"Very good. The captain will be pleased." Halbarad smiled, a faint look of relief crossing his face while Elladan's expression darkened almost imperceptibly. It was clear that his most immediate goals at the moment did not include pleasing the captain. "If you wouldn't mind, my lord, I and Amlaith would accompany you to the horses. We need to prepare our own, for we will be accompanying you until we reach the crossroad close to the Old Hills." Elladan nodded amiably and Halbarad beamed at him, pleased, before he turned to look at Aragorn. "And you, Strider? Will you be coming with us?"

Aragorn didn't answer immediately, his eyes fixed on his elven brother who looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for an affirmative answer. Well, Aragorn thought defiantly, he wasn't going to get it. A small, rather un-elf-lordly (wouldn't Glorfindel be shocked!) spark of smug satisfaction came to life inside of him as he curtly and nonchalantly shook his head.

"No," he said coolly, his eyes not leaving Elladan's. "No, I will not. Haldar asked for my help with … something. I will stay."

Elladan narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased, but Aragorn merely looked back mutinously. Morgoth's Hammer, he should bloody well decide what he wanted, the young ranger thought angrily. If he left the camp and did what he ought to do, it was wrong and his brothers, not to mention Legolas, got upset at him. If he didn't go out and stayed in the relative safety of the camp, it was also wrong. The only thing he really cared about at the moment was not having to deal with two overprotective brothers and two nervous wood-elves who would do their best to put him at ease and treat him as if the fact that he saw what happened _before_ it happened didn't bother them at all.

He wasn't being very fair, he realised that himself, but then again, he was in no mood to _be_ fair at the moment.

"I … see," Halbarad said slowly, clear grey eyes wandering from Aragorn to Elladan and back again. It seemed that he had wronged him earlier, Aragorn decided. It was clear that the younger man had picked up on the tension between the two of them. "Very well. Are you ready to depart then, my lord? The captain is anxious to leave."

"I am sure he is," Elladan said coolly, his gaze still fixed on the very expressionless face of his human brother. "Yes, of course, I am ready. Shall we leave?"

Without waiting for an answer and with a last, hard look in Aragorn's direction he turned around and walked off, trusting Halbarad to follow him. The young ranger didn't do so immediately for he looked at Aragorn with questioning eyes, as if expecting an explanation for the elf's behaviour from him.

Good luck with that, Aragorn thought sourly. He had been searching for something like that for years.

"It is nothing," he finally said with a weak smile and a nonchalant wave into the direction of the twin's retreating back. "Simply a … misunderstanding, that's all."

Halbarad, it seemed, was very much his father's son in some aspects, for the incredulous look he shot the older ranger could have rivalled even one of the captain's. He grumbled something under his breath that was quite undecipherable and turned to follow the dark-haired elf, having to hurry to catch up with his long-legged gait. Amlaith, whose role in the conversation had mainly consisted in standing slightly behind and to the right of Serothlain and gazing fixedly and reproachfully at Aragorn, smiled sardonically at Aragorn before he turned to follow the younger man. His voice, however, was calm and calculating in a matter that caused a shiver to run down Aragorn's back.

"A misunderstanding." The word was said in the same tone of voice in which other people would have said 'An accident?' when faced with a dead body and a man holding a bloody knife. "There seem to be happening an awful lot of those around you, Strider."

Before Aragorn could gather enough presence of mind to reply, Amlaith had turned around and hurried after Halbarad, his heavily bandaged right arm and the way he unconsciously protected his right side giving him a slightly lopsided appearance. Aragorn needed another second or two to get his anger under control and to unclench his hands that itched to close around the other man's neck. Amlaith was a _dúnadan_, he repeated endlessly in his head. He wasn't allowed to kill dúnedain. Amlaith was a dúnadan; he wasn't allowed to kill dúnedain…

Aragorn wasn't the only one who stared after Amlaith. Serothlain and Lhanton looked after the other ranger as well, and after a few more seconds Lhanton turned back to face Aragorn, a dark eyebrow raised slightly.

"Not really a pleasant fellow, him," he said mildly.

Aragorn would almost have laughed loudly. That was one way of saying it, yes. Then again, he was a fair man, fair enough to admit that Amlaith might have a point after all. He had promised him an explanation, after all, after he had agreed to accompany him on his hopeless attempt to try and save Ciryon. He had even come to like him, after a fashion – being faced with certain death in form of a horde of orcs tended to do that to you.

But the explanation the other had been waiting for – the explanation he had promised him – had never come. Yesterday, when he had been resting from the twins' well-meant medical ministrations, he had told Haldar about it and had asked the older ranger to find Amlaith so he could talk to him and explain everything as well as he could. Haldar had only looked at him disapprovingly but had left without protest. That, Aragorn knew now, should have been warning enough. Half an hour later, the tent flap had been pushed to the side – but not by Amlaith. Haldar, traitor that he was, had told Daervagor about it, who in turn had done the only sensible thing and had informed the twins.

Still weakened and faced with his brothers and Daervagor agreeing unanimously, Aragorn hadn't stood a chance. Despite his feeble protestations – after all, he didn't really like or trust Amlaith either – it had been decided that Amlaith would be getting a lot of things, among them an official commendation for bravery and, paradoxically enough, also a lecture about Thinking Before You Are Acting, but not an explanation. It was too dangerous, they argued, especially knowing what they did now, and if Aragorn even seriously thought about it, they would knock his head against something hard and unyielding until he saw reason. Well, the twins had said that last part, but Daervagor had been nodding grimly.

So all Amlaith had heard had been a curt statement from Daervagor that included words and phrases like "not your concern", "you did the right thing", "will inform your captain about your valour" – and, yes, "misunderstanding".

Amlaith hadn't believed a word Daervagor had been saying, of course, but the captain's countenance had been too forbidding for him to try and challenge the validity of his statements. He had left without protesting, but not without giving all of them a look that clearly stated that they were depraved liars that he held at least partly responsible for what had happened to his friend. All the hard-won civility and respect seemed to have disintegrated, the man's earlier suspicions only fuelled by his superiors' behaviour.

And he, Aragorn concluded, was back to Step One: Being glared at and suspected of any and all crimes Amlaith could think of.

"No," Serothlain agreed, jerking Aragorn out of his thoughts. "He isn't. He seems to be getting along quite well with Hírgaer, though."

"That is not too surprising," Lhanton said with a sarcastic smile. "They have equally sunny dispositions."

Serothlain, who was one of the few people who actually got along with Hírgaer, clearly examined this statement from all sides and angles, determined to defend the blond ranger should it become necessary. Honesty seemed to win after a few seconds, however, and he smiled.

"That is a rather good way of saying it," he agreed. "I like Hírgaer, I really do, but I would never describe him as having a 'sunny disposition'."

"He would most likely be scandalised if you said such a thing about him." Lhanton grinned. "He isn't exactly interested in such things."

"No one would ever accuse him of that," Aragorn agreed with a small smile. It was silent for a while, but then he added, casting his mind about for a safe subject, "What did you want to discuss with Celylith, Lhanton?"

Once again, the other ranger looked highly innocent.  
"Oh, just a little detail concerning our bet," he said offhandedly. "Nothing important, really."

"This gambling will be the death of you yet," Serothlain prophesised. "One of these days you will be too concerned with probabilities and your newest tricks to pay attention, and then someone will lop off your head."

"Firstly, I do not use tricks, new or old," Lhanton began. "And secondly, no one is going to lop off my head. When I die, it will be in the arms of a fair maiden whom I just rescued from her dreadful and violent fiancé."

"And the last thing you see will be her tear-streaked face while she vows her eternal love," Aragorn added sarcastically.

"Precisely." Lhanton grinned widely.

"None of us can know when our end will come. All we can do is prepare for it the best we can," Serothlain said, no mirth whatsoever on his face. "And then, it usually happens when we least expect it."

It was silent for a little while, the kind of oppressive, embarrassed silence that seemed to squeeze all life out of you, before Lhanton swallowed his obvious mortification.

"Forgive me, my friend," he said, an utterly serious glint in his eyes. "My words were stupid and ill-chosen. I did not mean to upset you. I am sor…"

"No," Serothlain said brusquely, closing his eyes for a second and shaking his head. "Don't be. It's my fault. It's been four days, and I really should…"

"No," Lhanton interrupted him in an equally firm tone of voice. "You should do nothing, and no one would expect it of you. Four days, four weeks, four months – it doesn't matter. We understand."

"You can't," Serothlain said softly, eyes dark and haunted. "Thank Eru for that fact, Lhanton, and let it be."

He seemed to want to say more, but in the end he only nodded at the two of them and hurried off. Lhanton took a step forward as if to try and stop him, but then he merely sighed and looked after him, regret on his face.

"Well," he finally said, turning back to Aragorn and giving him a mock-cheerful smile, "We are quite adept at driving people away, aren't we?"

"So it would seem," Aragorn agreed. They had started with a group of six and now there were only the two of them left. Not bad, indeed.

"I just don't know what to say," Lhanton said with a deeply frustrated shrug. "When Hasteth was still here, it was easier, but now…"

"There is nothing to say," Aragorn said gently. "He just lost a friend – his best friend. There is nothing anyone can say. All you can do is try to keep him company and help him cope with his loss a day at a time."

"No," the other ranger said almost angrily. "I can't."

"Someone will have to." Aragorn shrugged. "And you are his friend."

"Yes," Lhanton agreed, his eyes fixed firmly on his dusty boots. "I am his friend." He took a deep breath before he raised his head again, forced nonchalance on his face. "What did you do to drive the elf lord away, then?"

"I did not 'drive him away'."

"Of course not." Lhanton smiled understandingly. "You parted on the best of terms. The fact that he nearly would have skewered you with that last look of his is merely a coincidence, I'm sure."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the other ranger, inwardly cursing the other's keen eyes. Lhanton's smile was infectious, however, and so he finally gave up and started smiling as well.  
"As I said earlier, it was a misunderstanding. I am an adult and perfectly able to make my own decisions regarding my health, and he seemed to have misunderstood that."

"Ah," the other man said, nodding. "I see. The age-old problem of 'I am older and wiser than you and you will therefore do as I say, young one'."

"Exactly." Aragorn nodded his head tiredly. "I have had this conversation many times with him and his brother, and I daresay I will have it many times in the future. They only wish to protect me."

"They do not wish to see you hurt," Lhanton said with an utter seriousness that was so rarely reflected in his voice. "Listen to them, Estel. This is getting ugly very quickly."

"What should I do, then?" Aragorn asked, tightening his hold on his fraying temper. The next person who told him something along these lines would get hurt, that he swore by Elbereth herself. "Run away? Hide in a hole?"

"Maybe." The older ranger nodded calmly, ignoring his belligerent tone of voice. "This is not your fight. This is not your company. Take your elven friends and Amlaith and leave."

"And leave you to fight alone?" Aragorn blinked incredulously. "You are my people, Lhanton. How could I leave you now?"

"Yes, we are," Lhanton agreed. "But, pardon me for saying this, Strider, you have not lived with us. We have not survived as long as we have by being all in the same place. Our camps are scattered all over Eriador for a reason: So that not all of us will be destroyed if we are attacked." He looked at Aragorn, grey eyes dark and serious. "This is not a fight that can be won by numbers, Estel. It has never been so for us."

"You are right," Aragorn said slowly, seeing the other's point. "But I could no more desert you now than I could desert Lord Elrond's sons or my other friends."

"No one would see it as desertion, but as a wise decision. Risking all your resources and all your men if you do not have to is foolishness."

"Maybe," Aragorn allowed. "But I would see it so and would not bear the thought of it."

Lhanton only looked at him in a way that Aragorn was already familiar with. It was the same one that Haldar always used when he said something that the older ranger considered ill-advised, too optimistic or naïve. Ah well, Aragorn thought, maybe Legolas was right. His fellow rangers could be slightly pessimistic from time to time.

"Very well," Lhanton finally said, bowing his head with a small smile. He didn't voice what he really thought, namely that Aragorn was a naïve, but likeable idiot who would probably get himself killed in the next week or so. "We appreciate your help, of course. For what it is worth, I am glad to have you here."

"So am I," Aragorn retorted, finding that it was the truth. Lhanton was right, this _was_ getting ugly very quickly, but he wouldn't want to be anywhere else. He hadn't been able to help Ciryon and the others, hadn't been able to help Haldar's brother or Amlaith's friend, but he could help those still alive. It was something he desperately hoped was true. "You speak as if you have some experience with overprotective relatives," he added, looking for some safe ground on which to lead this conversation. "Do you have siblings?"

"No." Lhanton shook his head. "I do not. I was my parents' first child, and they died before I had reached my fifth year. I was given to my grandparents after that. I do, however, have some older cousins. Or rather," he added, averting his eyes, "I did."

Aragorn was silent, asking himself if he should ask Lhanton about something he obviously didn't wish to discuss. The other ranger seemed to sense his predicament and smiled, a mixture of understanding and good-natured teasing in his eyes.

"You do not have to ask, Strider; I will tell you. My oldest cousin joined the Rangers some fifteen years before I did; he was killed by some highwaymen a few years ago. His brother died of the fever that swept through our village closest to the confluence of the rivers, as did many of the other inhabitants. One of my female cousins died in childbirth, and the last one, the one closest to my own age, married and joined her husband in one of the few settlements that we have in Minhiriath. I haven't seen her in over eight years, but I hear that she is well."

"I am sorry," Aragorn said sincerely. "The life of the Dúnedain is hard and full of dangers."

"It is," Lhanton agreed. "But who else would hold the servants of darkness at bay? Who would protect what is left of the northern kingdom if we did not? And besides, there is always hope." Aragorn raised an eyebrow in question, and so he added, "My cousin may have died in childbirth, but her children lived. They are twins, who are so rarely born to us nowadays, and they are healthy and strong. They are our future, or so I hope, if we can hold the darkness at bay long enough for them to grow up and take up the swords of their forefathers."

Aragorn smiled slightly.  
"I am glad to hear that." He frowned slightly and narrowed his eyes the tiniest bit as he studied the man in front of him. "Why would you think that…?"

"As I said, this is getting ugly very quickly," Lhanton explained, anticipating the other ranger's question. "The men talk, as all soldiers all over Middle-earth are bound to do. The captain has not said anything and neither has the commander, but there is something going on. Something is not right."

Aragorn put on his most clueless expression. According to his brothers, it made him look like a moron, but if it could convince Lhanton that he didn't know more than any of the other rangers, he didn't care.  
"There is an orc horde on the loose that we seemingly can't track. Of course something is not right."

Lhanton smiled at him indulgently, clearly sensing that he knew more than he let on. He seemed to accept that he wouldn't reveal anything, however, and with the politeness that all rangers seemed to possess he changed the subject.

"Well, yes, of course. My point is that the men are nervous, jittery, even, and for a ranger to become nervous a lot of things have to happen. I am no seer, but I think it is safe to say that things are going to get much, much worse before they get better." He frowned. "If they get better."

"They will," Aragorn said uncompromisingly. A dark, secret part of him feared the same thing, but he would not allow himself to dwell on that. He would see to it that this stopped, no matter what and if it was the last thing he ever did. "I am sure about it. They will."

"I hope that you are right, Estel," Lhanton said sincerely, with that same look in his eyes that seemed to marvel at the younger man's naiveté. "Elbereth's stars above, I hope that you are."

All Aragorn could do was give him a weak smile that lacked any confidence whatsoever. Because, contrary to Lhanton, he did possess some foresight, and all he could see at the moment was a darkness that laid itself over the lands and became more impenetrable by the second.  
**  
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**"Because … she's nice?"

Legolas turned back to Celylith, abandoning his intense study of the deep blue sky and the few small, fluffy clouds that covered it, and arched an eyebrow.

"You can do better than that, _mellon nín_."

Celylith nodded thoughtfully, apparently thoroughly agreeing with him on that account. The silver-haired elf was many things, among them rather unforgiving and only the tiniest bit strange, but overly modest was not one of them.

"Very well. Because … she's fluffy?"

"That's hardly better than 'nice'," Legolas said. "Besides, she is not."

"Yes, she is."

"No, she is not," the other elf stressed. "You have been spending far too much time with the Noldor, Celylith. You are beginning to indulge in pointless discussions."

"You have been spending far more time among them than me, my lord," Celylith pointed out as he guided his horse around a thick clump of blackberries that had grown onto the road. "I spent the spring in Mirkwood, after all, among _sensible_ beings."

Legolas brushed his words aside with a wave of his hand.  
"Don't try to change the subject. She can't be – what was that word? – yes, _fluffy_, because bats are not fluffy. Innocent little animals are fluffy, I'll grant you that, like baby rabbits or puppies or even small birds, but bats are _not_."

"That, my lord, is a matter of opinion." Celylith was clearly not prepared to give up so easily.

"It is not," Legolas said uncompromisingly. "Bats are not fluffy, and that is final."

"All right," Celylith said, backing down. He knew that tone of voice, knew it very well, in fact, and knew also what might happen to him if he insisted. The last person who had done so when Legolas' father had used this particular tone had been the leader of those obnoxious dwarves that had passed through Mirkwood about ten years ago, and everybody knew how that had ended. "I see that you are not particularly reasonable today."

"I am always reasonable, Captain."

"Of course you are, my lord. I don't know what came over me."

Celylith's tone was so sincere and regretful that even the most hardhearted officer would have believed him, but Legolas knew better. With the possible exception of the Lords Glorfindel and Erestor, he knew no one who could respectfully disrespect you quite like Celylith. The silver-haired elf had a knack of putting just enough insolence into his words – not enough that anyone would ever find it justified to rebuke him for it, but just enough so that you couldn't miss the implication he wished to convey. Mostly, he thought, said implication was that you were an arrogant, witless fool. Celylith was very good at that, indeed.

The object of his deliberations, quite unaware of his thoughts, frowned as he stared off into the distance and fixed a large tree standing by the road with a look so fierce that the poor thing would have fallen over, roots sticking into the air, if it had been any smaller.

"I have it!" he declared finally, beaming at Legolas in a way that the elven prince was quite familiar with. When they had been younger – far, far younger, in fact – that smile had usually meant that his friend had just had an idea that would get them into a lot of trouble. Legolas smiled inwardly. He had always known that they would pay for Celylith's – admittedly ingenious – ideas, but somehow he had often gone along with them anyway. "You should allow me to keep Lúthien because..."

"Because?" Legolas prompted when the other elf made a dramatic pause.

"Because of the shock value!" Celylith told him, as if that was a completely normal thing to say when talking about a bat. "Think of what our enemies would say if there was a bat accompanying us into battle!"

"I know what they would say," Legolas said immediately. "They would shriek with laughter and question our sanity. In some cases," he shot Celylith a pointed look, "they would be quite right to do so."

"You are just dismissing each of my suggestions before even thinking about it," Celylith accused his friend. "You are not giving me a real chance."

"True," Legolas agreed. "I have a good reason for that – no, two reasons, really: First, I never agreed to have this discussion at all, and second, your suggestions are ludicrous."

"Of course you agreed!" If Celylith hadn't been sitting on a horse, he would probably have been jumping up and down in agitation. "You said, and I quote, 'Give me one good reason not to feed that horrid little creature to the next hunting dog I see'." He wrinkled his brow. "Which 'horrid little creature' you meant I'm still not sure."

"That was a rhetorical statement, Celylith," Legolas said in the tired tone of an elf who had been forced to repeat the same thing one too many times.

"Well, I still think that some of my reasons are exceptionally good ones," Celylith said after a few seconds which he clearly used to promptly forget what Legolas had just said. "Besides, what would I do with her? I couldn't just throw her out like last week's dinner and feed her to the dogs."

"Why not?" Legolas mumbled.

"I haven't seen any bats in the Angle yet," the other elf went on, blinking at his prince earnestly in a way that would have made the most adorable puppy jealous. "These lands aren't very wooded, it appears, and there aren't as many caves as in Mirkwood."

"Not you, too."

Celylith ignored his comment and continued. He was clearly an elf with a mission.  
"I should take her back home and set her free there. She could find a mate, have little bats of her own and be happy."

"No." Legolas shook his head. "Who knows when we will be getting back home? I am not going to live with that … thing … until then."

"You don't even have to see her," Celylith tried. "You have hardly seen her since we returned from Aberon. She won't bother you."

"She is here, that is enough." Legolas was quite obviously not amenable to his friend's attempts to make him see his side. "And she does bother me. She bothers my sense of dignity. The Rangers already think we're insane – by bringing your precious little bat, you have irreparably damaged the reputation of our realm."

"Well," Celylith said reasonably. "There wasn't all that much to damage, if you ask me."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Legolas asked, wondering if he was being insulted by one of his own men.

"Their main contact has been the Elves of Rivendell, Legolas," Celylith explained, looking at his prince as if he was being unreasonable on purpose. "After hundreds of years of Noldorin indoctrination, our reputation could not be _un_damaged."

"True," Legolas admitted. "You might have a point there."

"Thank you," Celylith said, smiling at him. Taking this for a good chance to change the subject, he added, looking behind them, "Speaking of which, where are the twins?"

Legolas, quite uselessly, really, directed a look behind them. Of course there was nothing to be seen – they would have heard it if the twins had caught up with them.  
"In their defence, they said that they would have a quick talk with Daervagor."

"I don't know about you, my lord, but for me a 'quick talk' is something else," Celylith pointed out, the first signs of faint worry laying itself over his features. "They should have caught up with us a long time ago."

"Well, you know the Noldor," Legolas said with a small, not entirely convincing smile. "You know how much they like to talk."

Celylith frowned, once again turning to look at the silent path stretching out behind them in a long, dusty line.  
"Maybe they got lost."

Legolas mirrored his movement and looked at the straight road before he turned back to his friend, shaking his head. There hadn't been a crossroad on the whole stretch between here and the point where they had left the twins and Daervagor and his men, and both of them were quite keenly aware of it.

"How? There hasn't been any kind of intersection."

"Well," Celylith said, shrugging, "you know how they are."

Legolas shook his head solemnly, even though there was a smile lurking in the silver-blue depths of his eyes.  
"Now, Celylith, do be fair. I know that every other elven tribe is naturally inferior to us in every possible way, but not even Noldor get _that_ lost."

"Yes, my lord," the other elf echoed dutifully if somewhat artificially. "I am sorry, my lord."

"The two of them have been here many times in the past," Legolas went on, not sounding all that sure anymore. These were Lord Elrond's sons they were talking about, after all. "They know the Angle as well as any ranger."

Celylith smiled thinly and gave their surroundings a pointed look.  
"Tell me again why _we_ are patrolling this area, then?"

That was a good question, Legolas was willing to admit that. They had readily agreed to join the rangers' forces in their search for whomever or whatever was responsible for the killings – but, if he was honest, he had rather counted on Aragorn joining them. Aragorn knew the area slightly better than the two of them – he had been here before, after all –, but for him it made much more sense to try and familiarise himself with it. Aragorn was a ranger, more, he was their chieftain, and he had to learn all he could about these lands as quickly as possible. And, at least in Legolas' experience, there was simply no better way to familiarise oneself with a particular area than patrolling it, day in and day out.

The only problem was that Aragorn was, as was easily apparent, _not_ here. Elladan, being the undiplomatic moron that he sometimes was, had somehow managed to antagonise him so thoroughly that the young human had flatly refused to accompany them anywhere. The twin had managed to do so in less than a quarter-hour, something for which Legolas absentmindedly had given him extra points. Elrohir hadn't been very happy, on the other hand. He had only looked at his brother with hard eyes when the other elf had calmly declared that Estel was not going to come with them, but had let the matter rest, at least in front of them. Legolas had no doubts whatsoever that he would address this question, and that the ensuing conversation wasn't going to be something Elladan would enjoy. Elrohir, when incensed, could be truly frightening.

Then again, he was also willing to bet that Daervagor wasn't enjoying his conversation with Elrohir, either. Or that Aragorn would enjoy his once they returned – Elrohir was nothing if not indiscriminate in his wrath.

"Because everybody related to Lord Elrond in any way is as stubborn as a hardheaded mule?" he finally chose the most fitting explanation.

Celylith nodded slowly, as if truly considering his words.  
"You know, I believe that explains quite a lot. Including the whole Kinslaying thing."

"Don't tell them that," Legolas advised his friend, knowing how touchy the twins could react when someone called them relatives of Fëanor. They weren't, of course – not truly direct relatives at least –, but it was close enough for most people. "They would not like it."

"I know," Celylith said seriously. "And, if the matter concerned anything or anyone else, that would of course be reason enough for me to hang it over their heads until this world's end. But there are things one should not joke about, and this is one of them."

"True," the other elf agreed, inclining his head. "There are those things, indeed."

Celylith looked at him for a little while without saying a word, looking as if he was deliberating an important matter. He tilted his head slightly to catch the sunlight as they passed underneath a large oak tree, and when they re-emerged into the sun he seemed to have made up his mind.

"I have been thinking about it for some time now, and I have come to the conclusion that, technically and – more importantly, logically – speaking, you cannot blame yourself for anything at the moment. I mean, it's simply not possible, because you haven't had the chance to do anything that even the most guilt-frenzied person could consider critical. Therefore, for once you cannot feel any kind of ill-conceived and unreasonable guilt at the moment." Legolas remained quiet, and Celylith narrowed his eyes and added, "Please tell me you don't, Legolas."

"I don't," Legolas said obediently, inwardly turning his eyes skywards. He had known Celylith for a long, long time now, and he still didn't know how to stop him when he was in a mood like this.

He also didn't know how to lie convincingly, for the other elf's eyes narrowed even further until Legolas asked himself – only half-jokingly – if he could still see anything.

"No guilt about those rangers' deaths?" he pressed.

"Ciryon and the others?" Legolas asked. "No. I couldn't have done anything to help them. It is no small miracle that we got to Aragorn and the others in time."

"No guilt about the other rangers, then?" Celylith tried something else.

"No." Legolas shook his head. "We hadn't even arrived yet. Blaming myself for their deaths would be as idiotic as blaming myself for the death of the flower that a troll seven hundred leagues away steps on."

"Hm." Celylith was quite clearly thrown by such a display of reason and logic. "Well, yes. No guilt about that fight between Estel and Elladan that the latter so adamantly denied has even taken place?"

"No." This time, Legolas even snorted. "They are who they are, and they will calm down soon enough. I doubt that either of them said something he or the other cannot or will not take back or forget – for that Elladan wasn't angry enough. Or contrite."

"What is it then, my friend?" Celylith asked softly, purposefully slowing the gait of his horse to a very slow walk. "It concerns the boy, that is as plain to see as the light of day. It is I, Legolas. If you will not tell me, then whom will you tell?"

"Don't let him hear you call him that," Legolas told him automatically.

"I never would," Celylith assured him. "I want to keep my head, after all. Still, a boy he is to my eyes, and a boy he will remain probably until after he has married."

"That, I would say, is exactly the kind of statement that got Elladan into trouble during their last conversation."

"That is likely," Celylith agreed. "But, contrary to Elladan, I am too intelligent to say it out loud. Then again," he added, shooting his friend a quick look, "I am also too intelligent to let this matter drop."

"I let you drop the whole Lúthien issue," Legolas reminded him, but without rancour.

"Yes." Celylith nodded. "But this is important."

Legolas sighed deeply, but did not reply immediately. He was silent for a while, so long a while in fact that Celylith was already thinking about speaking up again, but then the blond elf broke the heavy silence.

"I do not blame myself for anything that has happened, Celylith," he finally began. "I am not that unwise or arrogant. I could not have done anything to stop these things from happening; the only one who could have is the one behind all this. And, I daresay, that was the furthest thing from his mind."

"Then what is it?" Celylith asked, puzzled. "Is it that … problem between Estel and the captain?"

"No." Legolas shook his head. "I still don't understand every aspect of that, and, as Aragorn said himself, I doubt that either of them does. This is a family problem, and if there is one thing I have learned in my life, it is never to get involved in one of those – and that an outsider can almost never understand them. I am furious with Daervagor, yes, I am slightly exasperated at Aragorn's actions – or rather the lack of them –, but I do not feel guilty. I did nothing to cause this and, I hope, nothing to make it worse."

"But…" Celylith prompted gently.

"But the keyword is that I do not understand him." Legolas took a deep breath and looked up. "Every day I see something new, a new facet of Aragorn that I was not aware of. I did not know that he had this problem with Daervagor – I did not even know that he had any human family left, even though he must, and I never thought to ask him. I did not know that he has the Sight, even though I might have guessed it – and now that I do, I do not know how to deal with it. I do not know how to handle it, and how to help him. I thought I did, I thought I could learn, but I evidently can't. He is my friend, and yet I cannot understand him or even help him."

"Of course you cannot truly understand it," Celylith said. "Neither can I, neither can anybody who has not experienced it themselves. Even in Rivendell that cuts the number of people down to Lord Elrond, the twins, and … what, maybe a handful of others?"

"Then I should at least help him in some way." Legolas' tone of voice was calm and sad. "I do anything but, I feel. He is insecure and helpless in many ways at the moments, and all I do is add my own helplessness and insecurity to his own and his many burdens. I have not even tried talking to him about Ciryon's death and what he saw – what could I possibly say, after all?"

"Why would you have to say anything?" the other elf asked. "I do not think the twins greeted him with a huge monologue once he woke up, do you?"

"Maybe not," Legolas admitted somewhat reluctantly. "But they could have if the need had arisen."

For a moment, Celylith only looked at him, but then he started smiling widely. It was an entirely inappropriate reaction, and Legolas couldn't help the small spark of anger that was kindled in his heart.

"What?" It was said in a calm, cool tone of voice, but there was enough menace in it to give even the most foolhardy warrior cause for worry.

"How much like your father you are, my friend!" Celylith marvelled, shaking his head. "Always you have to understand everything, to know everything and be able to do everything you put your mind to!"

Legolas looked at him in a way that did not encourage further comments, and the silver-haired elf smiled, trying to soften the impact of his words.

"I think that it is very rare that you understand someone wholly and completely – and I mean every single aspect of them," he said. "Maybe especially when you are talking about our kind. But I don't think it's any different for Men. There are things you will never, truly, understand about your friends. You know about them, yes, you know that they are important to them, yes, but you don't _understand_ them. Not really. But that doesn't matter."

Legolas still only glared at him, and Celylith sighed.

"Take us, for example. We have known each other for well over two thousand years now, haven't we? And for how many of those have we been friends?"

"For most of them," Legolas said almost reluctantly. "Well, as soon as you started talking and became interesting, that is."

"Eight years, Legolas," Celylith reminded him of the age difference between them. "That is all."

"It was enough. You were annoying when you were too small to play with the rest of us and couldn't accept it, you know."

"Very well," the other elf said, trying to get the conversation back on track. "Still, no matter how long I've known you, there are things I don't understand about you, things I will most likely never understand about you."

"Like what?" Legolas asked brusquely, even though the expression in his eyes slowly began to soften.

"Would you like a list?" Legolas cocked his head to the side and gave the other elf a very unamused look, and Celylith relented. "Well, for one there is your complete inability to understand that creatures like Lúthien and Wilwarin are adorable."

Legolas raised his eyebrows.  
"Evil spiders and bats are _not_ adorable. I thought we already covered that."

"We did," Celylith admitted with a smile, even though his eyes remained serious. "But I still think they are."

"I know you do, _mellon nín_." Against Legolas' will, he found that an answering smile wanted to spread over his face. "I know you do."

"And that is the point, isn't it?" the silver-haired elf said softly. "I like animals like those, I really do. I don't know why either. I just do. You don't understand that part about me, but you accept it. With little grace, admittedly…"

"Ha!"

"…but you still do. I, for one, do not understand how you can be so lenient sometimes."

"Lenient?" Legolas asked, honestly confused. He was as vain an elf as the next and thought quite highly of himself, but he had never considered himself … lenient. Leniency wasn't exactly a quality that was promoted when you served in Mirkwood's army and stood against the darkness day after day.

"Glónduil betrayed you, and you forgave him." Celylith bit down on his lip and exhaled slightly, shaking his head. "Had I got my hands on him and hadn't he been under the King's protection and yours, I would have killed him. I still would."

Legolas was silent for a few moments after his friend's words. Glónduil had been his friend – their friend – for a long time, until a few years ago. The other elf had always been slightly xenophobic and hostile towards humans, but not so much more than the average citizen of Mirkwood and so it had always passed unnoticed. Then, however, he had betrayed Mirkwood to their enemies and to those who would harm her – and her allies. Glónduil had been one of the reasons why Aragorn had been tortured and almost died, along with his father and the twins. That he, Legolas, had been in the same danger, he found less grave, unlike Celylith. Celylith was of the very simplistic opinion that Glónduil hadn't only betrayed their friendship, he had betrayed his prince and all he represented – and that was something the silver-haired elf would never, ever, forget.

And forgiveness, Legolas thought with a small smile that was somewhere between sadness and fondness, did not even cross his mind.

"I did not simply forgive him, Celylith," he said, knowing that it would do no good at all. They had had this conversation many times already, and he knew that nothing he could possibly say would make Celylith understand. "I forgave him for making a mistake. I never forgave him for betraying our realm or for hurting my friends, and I don't know if I ever will."

"There is no difference." Celylith shook his head curtly. There was nothing but cold determination in his eyes, making the dark-blue depths look even darker. "You are the crown prince, Legolas. By betraying you, he betrayed Mirkwood. I cannot separate one from the other. He did the one thing I can never forgive."

"I know," Legolas said somewhat tiredly, absentmindedly reaching down to pat Rashwe's gleaming white coat.

"But you do not fully understand." Celylith tried to lead the conversation back onto safer ground. "And I do not fully understand how you could forgive him when I want nothing more than to punish him for his crime."

"He is being punished, Celylith," Legolas told him. "He was effectively exiled."

"Leniency," the silver-haired elf said curtly. "Leniency to which you undoubtedly persuaded your father, and which I cannot understand." He shook his head slightly and closed his eyes for a second. "It is like that in every friendship, Legolas. In my opinion, it is what keeps them alive. How boring it would be if I would always understand how you think!"

"That may all very well be, my friend," Legolas conceded the point, "but I don't see how that is really important here."

"Of course you do." Celylith only looked at him. "You think that you cannot help Aragorn because you do not understand what is happening to him. But then again, neither does he, if you ask me. And, if it makes you feel any better, neither do the twins, I think, at least not completely. They would never have allowed anything like this to happen if they had had the ability to prevent it."

"Most likely not," Legolas said thoughtfully. "They have a lot of experience with this, it seems, a lot of it personal, but not even they seem to know all answers." He smiled to himself. "When Aragorn does something, he does it all the way – and with style."

"Indeed," Celylith agreed, his voice solemn even though his eyes were shining with merriment. "Which mostly results in death, doom and blood, of course."

"Incidentally, yes." Legolas shrugged. "It seems to be unavoidable. That man is like a plague, really."

"But he is _our_ plague," the other elf stressed, echoing the words that most of Rivendell's warriors had said at least once. It was general opinion that Aragorn was a reckless and annoying menace – but he was _their_ menace. If anyone was going to kill him or hit him over the head with something, it was going to be them, not some orc or evil megalomaniac out for his blood. "And none of them should forget it."

Legolas didn't ask if Celylith meant the Rangers or someone else, and thought it better not to ask him.  
"I can only say it again: Don't let him hear you. This is what brought Elladan such disfavour, I would reckon." He was silent for a moment before he added, "I thank you, my friend. Your counsel is wise."

A pleased smile spread over the elven warrior's face, and he inclined his head.  
"There is no need to thank me. I just … pointed out a few things that you already knew, but were too stubborn to admit."

"I am not stubborn," Legolas immediately disagreed.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I am not."

"Yes, you are! Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation!" Celylith shook his head, eyes briefly lingering on a suspicious-looking dark shadow on the exposed hillside to their right, before he returned his attention to his friend. "So you will speak with him?"

"I will," Legolas affirmed after a second's hesitation. "For all the good it will do."

"Good." Celylith nodded, pleased, and suspicion immediately reared its head and gave Legolas a cheery little wave.

"Did Elrohir put you up to this?" he asked, looking at his friend who seemed quite unconcerned and very innocent. "It would be very much like him: While he berates Elladan and they both argue with Daervagor, you get me to talk to Aragorn. This way, every possible angle is covered."

"Who?" Celylith asked, frowning as if he could hardly remember about whom Legolas was talking. "Elrohir? Why would you think that?"

"Because it is devious, just like him," Legolas answered simply. "He is his father's son. So, did he?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about, my lord," Celylith said with his most witless, guileless smile and shook his head. If Legolas hadn't known that Celylith, as the son of his father's military advisor, was in fact very intelligent and downright shrewd, he would have immediately believed him to have an intelligence roughly equivalent to that of a cave troll. "As much as I would love discussing this further with you," he ignored Legolas' disbelieving grumble, "I fear that we have work to do."

Legolas' keen eyes quickly found what his friend had seen seconds earlier.  
"The hillside?"

Celylith nodded, eyes once again fixed on the dark shadow that might – might, mind you! – have been a cave entrance. The rangers hadn't mentioned anything, but then again, they had already got quite a lot farther than they had intended. Besides, Legolas decided, straining his eyes to get a closer look, this looked as if it could in fact be quite a fresh development, at least judging by the masses of rocks and other debris that was piled up in large heaps around the dark, shadowed spot. There was a large, ivy-covered dying tree to the one side of it that looked as if it had been felled by one of the latest storms, and more dead wood among the debris. It was feasible that it had been impossible to see this part of the hillside until it had been recently exposed in such a violent way.

"Do we wait for the twins?" Celylith asked, looking as if he already knew the answer.

"That could still take quite a while." Legolas shook his head in refusal. "Even if they are finished with Daervagor, they had their own sector of patrol. If we want to reach the camp before nightfall, we will have to turn around soon enough anyway. In fact," he gave the sinking sun an assessing look, "we are already late."

"What are the two of them _doing_ to that poor dúnadan?" Celylith asked rhetorically. He didn't look as if he was too worried about – or interested in – Daervagor's fate.

"Probably nothing he doesn't at least partially deserve," Legolas answered, a lofty expression on his face. "And even if, Halbarad and the others are with him. And don't forget Commander Cemendur and his men. They wanted to separate after another few miles, yes, but I would say that they were there for their … discussion."

"Ah yes. _Him_," Celylith said while they directed their horses over to the right side of the road and allowed them to pick their own way through the undergrowth towards the hillside. "I do not like him."

"I noticed," Legolas said with a small smile, his attention divided between their goal and his friend. There was no imminent sense of danger in the air and the trees were silent, but one could never be too careful. "In fact, I believe the whole camp did. And, I daresay, he also doesn't like you much, either."

"He is impudent," the other elf said curtly. "Insolent. Hostile. He insulted you!"

"That he did," Legolas said, far more equanimous. "Do not take it personally. If you give him enough time, I am sure he will also insult you, the twins, Aragorn, and probably everybody else he can get his hands on."

"Of course I am taking it personally," Celylith said, looking at Legolas with faint incredulity. "He _insulted_ you."

Legolas didn't say anything and only shook his head, but found that here was yet another example that proved his friend's theory. This was another item on Celylith's Things-I-do-not-forgive list, and no matter how often he talked about it with him, he simply did not change his attitude even one iota. It was quite annoying, of course – but it was also flattering.

They reached the hillside a few minutes later and dismounted, not being able to proceed any further. The crumbling wall of rocks and muddy earth rose in front of them for a good fifty feet – not all that high, but high enough to make a few low caves possible. Legolas shuddered inwardly as he ascertained that his knives moved lightly in their sheaths and began to clamber up the rubble in front of them, followed by a silent Celylith. Valar, he hoped there was no cave.

After a few feet and thanks to the new angle they were now afforded, it was quite clear that they were not so lucky. There, in the rocky face of the hillside right above their heads, there was at least a shallow cave, still half-hidden behind a curtain of dying and browning ivy. Legolas took a few more steps, using the smallest indentations in the rock as hand- and footholds, when Celylith's hand closed around his leg and stopped him. He gave the suddenly menacingly looming cave a quick look before he looked down. Celylith's face was serious, but he was silent as his eyes ostentatiously wandered to the right, over to the heap of rocks and other debris. Even though the heavy rain of the past few days had washed away most tracks, there was still an impression to be seen that had been left by a heavy, most likely metal-plated shoe. Next to it, revealed when Celylith soundlessly reached out and turned over a large, jagged rock, there was a smear of a dark substance on the stone that looked … flaky, for a lack of better word, almost like drying paint.

In fact, Legolas' briefly stunned brain noticed, it looked quite a lot like dried orc blood.

And if, that same part of his brain went on instantly, there was dried orc blood here, it meant that there had been orcs here – and that there _still_ could be orcs here. Not a lot, mind you – they would have undoubtedly sensed that, but then again, it took only one of them to kill you.

Varda's stars above, he thought as his eyes locked with Celylith's dark-blue ones, and they had ridden up here like a pair of novices just out of warrior training!

It took him only the briefest fraction of a second to turn around, the question of how long they might already have been watched and the knowledge of how terribly exposed they were up here ringing in his head. His knives were already half out of their sheaths when the sun seemed to darken and a shadow fell over him, and with a bitten-off curse Legolas raised his eyes even further. The answer to his question had appeared out of the apparently not-all -that-shallow cave, wincing at the harsh sunlight and with a half-surprised and half-gleeful expression on its hideous face. It was clear that it, at least, had not expected to come face to face with two elves climbing up to its hiding place.

For a second, orc and elf only stared at each other, quite possibly both aware of the absurdity of their situation. The stalemate ended abruptly, namely in the moment that the orc's bloodthirsty nature overcame its natural aversion to the sunlight, and with a reverberating bellow that shook loose more small stones that fell down onto the three beings below it drew its blade. Legolas, who had shaken off the brief paralysis of shock, intercepted the blow with one of his blades and struck back with the other, twisting to the side in the process. The ground beneath him crumbled and gave way in a shower of earth and rocks, and he only just regained his equilibrium.

That brief moment of distraction had cost him dearly, however. The orc was still reeling from the blow it had only just evaded, but now another one of Legolas' experiences was being proven right, namely that there is _never_ just one orc. Shadows dancing over his face were the only warning he received, and for a short, motionless second he had the time to acknowledge the death that came rushing up to him in the form of two more orc blades. Before either of them could connect, however, he felt something smash into him from behind, bearing him down onto the ground. Celylith, it seemed, had done the only thing he could, and had thrown himself at him to bring him down and out of the way of the two scimitars.

The action saved his life, but it was the final blow to his already weakened balance. Unable to compensate for the sudden, violent crash, he slid towards the edge of the makeshift, crumbling path, and with a surprised gasp he suddenly found himself airborne.

He had just enough time to see the horrified expression on Celylith's face turn to one of pain as one of the orc blades found its mark before he hit the first obstacle on his way down the slope. Sharp pain exploded in his side as something pierced his clothing and skin and burrowed itself into his flesh, but even that pain seemed to fade into insignificance at the agony that went through him as his shoulder connected with something hard and extremely unyielding.

The accompanying crack, eerily reminiscent of a dry twig being snapped, was the last thing he heard and the one that followed him into unconsciousness.

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Miles away, Aragorn surged upwards, leaving behind the last, shadowy tendrils of darkness and pain that wanted to pull him back down into their black embrace. Pain and panic, however, clung to him as he opened his eyes, and he stared straight ahead, a shocked and disbelieving expression in the silver-grey depths.

He didn't hear Haldar's frantic questions. He didn't feel the other ranger's hand on his back or the quickly darkening bruise on his upper right arm where he had so suddenly made contact with a low wooden table as his legs had given out under the onslaught of pain that had stabbed right through his head. He didn't notice the dust that clung to his clothes as he sat up on the ground or the other rangers that had seen his collapse and had now come to help.

All he could see was the last image he had seen, crisply projected in the darkness that had filled his mind, an image of a fair-haired elf tumbling over the edge of a stony path and disappearing in a yawning chasm of darkness.

A burning pain in his chest reminded him of the necessity to draw breath, and a shudder went through his entire body as he finally did so. His heart beat so quickly that he though he would faint again, and very, very slowly and deliberately Aragorn brought his hands up, cradled his aching skull and closed his eyes.

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TBC...**

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_ada - father (daddy)  
muindor nín - my (birth) brother  
dúnadan (pl.: dúnedain) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
mellon nín - my friend_

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My alter ego realised that people hadn't fallen off stuff for quite a long time and demanded I do something against it ... which I just did. So I think she should be happy. Only a happy alter ego is a good alter ego. •winces• So, everybody is, basically, screwed. I am still trying to decide which is worse: Facing orcs and/or visions, or facing the twins when they're in a bad mood and out for your blood. •thinks• Hard to say, really. While you ponder this you can review. And then, perhaps, give me an answer. So, what do you think? •wide smile•**

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**Additional A/N:**

**As always, my apologies to Mirwen Sunrider, Tatsumaki-sama and Erurawien for not including them in my review replies. Remember, I need a valid email address. So, there either has to be one on your profile page, or, if you wish to review anonymously, you have to include one there. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I have found that big group emails work best for me! Thanks!**


	19. Burnt Children

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**I'm sorry I'm a bit late, guys. I had all my wisdom teeth removed over the past three weeks, and that really is no fun at all. The last two came out yesterday, and I once again look like a deranged hamster. The first time was worse, though... Plus, I also thought that I would get a lot of work done, which turned out to be a huge misconception. Turns out that you can't really do a lot while pressing a cooling pad against your face with one hand. Anyway, it's not all that bad. I have good painkillers, and they keep me happy. •g•**

**Oh, and this is the part where I announce in an exceedingly sarcastic tone of voice that there won't be any elf torture in this chapter AT ALL and that everybody under 13 is very welcome to come and have a look. There's a reason this fic's rated PG-13.•pause• Okay? Okay, then. This chapter should make all of those people happy who have been complaining that there hasn't been enough torture yet. Torture, I ask you? Since when do I torture anybody? •shakes head• Sheesh, people nowadays...**

**All right, so here's the next bit. Apart from the little bit of elf whumping I already mentioned (and which, at least partly, is also Jack's fault), we see a bit more of Aragorn, who isn't having a very good time right now. Haldar's doing his best to help, but the poor guy's a little lost, really. Plus, Legolas decides that his detached inner voice is a lot more trouble than it's worth and that Celylith and he are in deep, deep trouble. We could have told him that a long time ago.**

**Enjoy and review, please!**

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Chapter 19

Never before, in his entire life that hadn't exactly been free of extraordinary, embarrassing or terrible events, had he wished for the sun to grow cold, drop out of the sky and hit him on the head, just to have it done and over with once and for all.

It wasn't that he didn't like Arien – he thought she was doing a wonderful job, actually –, but there were limits to what a human could endure and not go mad, and Aragorn's had been reached quite some time ago.

He wasn't one to think like that, didn't think like that, really – but that was the crux of it, wasn't it? He didn't seem to be able to follow a real train of thought or make any kind of logical decision – Valar, he didn't even seem to be able to think at all. That was a problem, a bloody big one, actually, but how was he supposed to solve it if his head hurt so abominably that even the light filtering through his closed eyelids stabbed into his brain as if it consisted of hot metal spikes?

He wasn't, Aragorn decided to his substantial relief as he screwed his eyes shut. There was no way in all of Arda he was going to figure out anything, let alone solve any problems.

The background noises around him that he hadn't paid any attention at all in his rather unsuccessful attempt to deal with the pain that stabbed through his head suddenly grew louder, and if Aragorn's hands hadn't been so busy cradling his skull, he would have clamped them over his ears to block out the sound. There was someone's hand on his back that now moved to take a hold of his right arm, closing around the bruise that was already blooming there, but that pain hardly mattered right now. With gentle but firm insistence, the hand gripped his arm more tightly and lifted him to his feet, something that turned out not to be such a good idea.

With hindsight, Aragorn was glad that his head hurt enough that it actually should have split apart. Distracted as he was by the pain in his skull, he was too busy to throw up, which was what his body urgently wanted him to do. This way, he only swayed drunkenly, his eyes still firmly shut and one of his hands cradling his forehead. The other hand rested on the arm of the person that was steadying him, gripping him tightly enough to leave bruises. The identity of said person was as much a mystery to him as the question of what was going on here and why he was feeling as if someone had taken a troll's club and bludgeoned him over the head with it until his skull had caved it.

And that his head had in fact caved in or done something equally distressing was plain to see – why else would he be completely unable to hold on to a single thought?

The person steadying him said something to him before he raised his voice slightly, clearly speaking to someone else. His suddenly loud voice jarred Aragorn's head once more, causing it to throb unbearably in rhythm with his heartbeat, but it also sounded as if his words were meant to be comforting. They weren't, of course, not really – how could they have been when every small noise sliced through his brain like a hot knife through butter? –, but that was hardly the other's fault.

He was suddenly moving – not on his own volition, mind you –, or rather was being led, since he seemed to be incapable of independent movement of any kind. He could hardly keep himself upright, and so he was rather grateful to trust his helper to know where he was going. One of them ought to, after all. He didn't know how long it was until they reached their destination. It could have been a few seconds or a minute or even an hour for all he knew; all he was aware of was the torturous sunlight and the nausea rolling in his stomach.

The sound of rustling cloth sounded overly loud in his ears, and if it had been up to him he would have turned back around to escape the noise. The arm that by now lay around his shoulders and supported most of his weight tightened slightly at the unwilling groan that escaped his lips and the slightly-more-coordinated-than-usual stumble, and with an insistent push that sent his head into a tight spin Aragorn found himself being propelled forward.

Instantly, Aragorn felt darkness wash over him, soothing his aching head. The nausea was still there, knotting his stomach into a single solid ball, but it seemed to be more bearable now that the sun didn't blaze down on him anymore. The sun wasn't exactly _blazing_, Aragorn's aching brain informed him as he was being pushed forward and down onto something soft. It couldn't be, since it wasn't the right time, or at least shouldn't be the right time, but that didn't really make sense and…

"Here," the voice said again, and this time, Aragorn actually understood it. "That's better, isn't it?"

If he'd actually had the strength or energy, Aragorn would have nodded. That, however, would have caused his head to come loose and fall off his shoulders, of that Aragorn was very, very sure. And if it did that, then he wouldn't be able to do … something, something that was very important and that should be done immediately. He wasn't really sure what it was since the memory slipped out of his grasp every single time he tried to hold onto it, but it was Important.

He wasn't exactly sure if he was upright or lying down or actually doing something in between, but everything else ceased to matter when a cold, wet cloth was placed on his forehead. It was the closest to perfect bliss he had felt in a long time, and for a moment or two, Aragorn allowed himself to bask in the feeling of complete happiness. It was quite amazing how much a wet cloth on your forehead could help, he mused. It didn't matter that you had just collapsed in the middle of the camp in a thoroughly humiliating manner, your head wanted to part company with your body in the most final manner imaginable and you had just seen your best friend's possible death, as long as you had a wet cloth on your forehead.

Aragorn enjoyed the cool comfort for a second longer before his thoughts stopped in their tracks, retraced their steps and once again came skidding to a full stop.

When you had just seen your best friend's possible…

The young ranger surged upwards as the memory of Legolas falling into a yawning, dark chasm came back to him, something that – if you disregarded the whole ride-to-Ciryon's-help-without-telling-anybody thing – turned out to be the stupidest thing he had done in several weeks. Almost immediately his head did a rather good impression of spontaneously imploding, and the pain was so severe that it made him feel faint once again. He had retained just enough presence of mind to hope that he had only imagined a moan of pain escaping his lips.

"Don't," the voice said almost immediately, and a hand pushed him back against something soft – a cushion maybe? – and stayed on his shoulder until he did the sensible thing and stopped moving. Haldar, he thought fuzzily. That was Haldar speaking, or so he thought. "Don't move."

That was rather good advice, he was willing to admit that, but utterly unrealisable. How could he not move after what he had just remembered? Deciding that opening his eyes first might be a good idea no matter what, he pried his reluctant eyelids open, pushing aside his fear of what the light might do to his head. Well, he thought reasonably, it would hardly implode twice, now would it?

Usually that kind of thought would have been an invitation to any number of mischievous Valar, but today he actually seemed to be in luck. Aragorn managed to open his eyes without too much trouble, and even the dim light filling the tent did nothing more than aggravate the headache pounding inside his skull. See, he told his cautious inner voice smugly, no implosion. There.

A moment later, he had managed to get his surroundings into focus. A large, indistinct blob quivered and reassembled itself into the face of Haldar, worry and something looking almost like panic on his bearded features.

"Thank the Valar!" the other man sighed, his voice trembling slightly. "I swear to you, Estel, if you ever do something like this again, I will…"

"Yes?" Aragorn croaked when the older ranger fell silent for a second.

"I will tell Lord Elrond's sons, and then I will laugh while they stuff vile potions down your throat," Haldar finished his sentence. "Sir."

"Good answer," Aragorn said, wincing as he pushed himself upright. "Evil, but good."

He was in their tent, he realised as the sudden nausea that his movement had provoked subsided once again. The tent flap was tightly closed, blocking out as much sunlight as possible. He was sitting on his bedroll, and what he had thought to be a cushion was in fact Haldar's bunched-up cloak. He absentmindedly noted how his dusty boots stained his bedding, and the surreal thought served to jerk him out of his thoughts.

"Could you help me up?" he asked, placing his bruised right arm on the ground and preparing to push himself up. His left side hurt abominably, he noticed suddenly. It was no wonder, of course; half-healed wounds strangely enough rarely thanked you when you collapsed on them. He refused to look at his side, half-afraid to see new blood stains on his shirt.

Haldar looked at him as if he had asked him to set his clothes on fire and run through the camp naked.

"So you can fall down again?" he asked, askance. "Forgive me, but no, thank you. I am in enough trouble with your brothers already. If I keep you here until they return, they might actually let me live." He frowned. "I rather doubt it, though."

"Haldar," Aragorn said with emphasis and looked at the older man, silver eyes dark and very, very serious. "Help me up."

Haldar was no foolish man nor was he stupid, and he only needed a second to put two and two together. Being one of the few people in this camp who knew why Aragorn had collapsed – or rather, why he had most likely collapsed – he had been harbouring suspicions for quite some time now, actually ever since he had watched the young man he had sworn to protect with his life go white as a sheet and collapse in agony. He did not, however, help the other ranger up. It seemed that he was more afraid of the twins' wrath than his, Aragorn thought, and couldn't find it in himself to blame him for it.

"What did you see, my lord?" he asked. The honorific slipped out without either of the two seeming to notice.

"Death," was Aragorn's very short and succinct answer, a shudder racing through him. "Death and darkness. Help me up, Haldar, please."

In the end, the pleading tone seemed to be more effective than anything else, and Haldar silently reached out and helped him to his feet. Aragorn was surprised that he actually managed to stay upright, but it seemed to him that the headache was slowly abating. He didn't know why he had reacted so strongly this time, but he supposed that a good deal of it all had to be attributed to the black, choking terror that filled his heart.

Trying to look inconspicuous, Aragorn leaned against the tent pole, allowing it to take some of his weight. The pounding inside his head might be more bearable now, but it was definitely still enough to cause his insides to twist violently. After a second or two of insistently telling the contents of his stomach to stay put, he looked up to meet Haldar's eyes, seeing the trepidation on the other man's face.

"What did you see, Estel?" Haldar repeated softly, and, for a second, Aragorn could hear Elrond in the other man's concerned voice.

He had always been helpless against his father's calm, gentle questions, and so he sank back against the pole at his back, sighing.

"I saw … dark shapes," he said, closing his eyes as the images came back to him. "Dark, twisting shapes. There was anger and fear and panic, and pain so strong that it made me reel. There was a dark … hole that loomed in front of me, a hole in a ragged wall. A cave, maybe, or a crevice of some sort. And…"

"And?" Haldar prompted when he fell silent.

"And my best friend falling into a dark chasm and disappearing from view," Aragorn said brutally and opened his eyes. "That's all."

"That is enough, I would say."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed. "So would I."

"Do you know if … if it has already happened?" Haldar asked, not questioning the validity of the other's statement for even a second. Aragorn gave him an incredulous look, and Haldar smiled. "That was a foolish question, I suppose."

"No." Aragorn shook his head, wishing for the cold cloth that was now lying crumpled on his bedroll. Every time he remembered that image, his headache increased. "No, it wasn't. But I don't. I don't know if it has already happened, or if it happening now, or will happen in a few hours. Or," he chuckled, barely suppressed panic colouring his voice, "if it is going to happen at all."

Haldar looked at him taxingly, his face not giving away anything of what was going through his head. Aragorn wouldn't have been surprised if the other ranger had been calculating the odds of him having gone stark raving mad. A faint breeze made the fabric of the tent quiver, carrying with it the scent of green grass and honeysuckle, and Aragorn absently tried to pinpoint the moment when everything had gone so very wrong.

Probably in the moment Melkor had descended into Arda, he assumed with a small, bitter smile.

"What do you think?" Haldar finally asked.

"Does it matter?" Aragorn retorted, not being able to meet the other's eyes. "I hardly know what is happening to me. Looking to me for an explanation is even less wise."

"Of course it matters," the older ranger said simply. "I have not seen what you have seen, nor have I felt what you have felt. I cannot make any judgements on this. I trust you to make them, however."

And he did, Aragorn thought as he gazed at Haldar's solemn face. There was nothing but conviction and trust in the other man's eyes, and for some reason that terrified him even more than the vision had.

"I..." he began haltingly, but then he fell silent and took a deep breath. "Yes, I believe it has already happened."

"So the prince is…" Haldar began hesitantly.

"I don't know." Aragorn shook his head. "Eru Ilúvatar be my witness, I don't know. I pray that he is not dead, that what I saw is an omen and nothing certain and unchangeable. I am not sure, but there is … something inside of me, an urgency that is growing by the second. It does not feel as if I could stop what is about to happen, but as if I only – maybe – could stop it from getting even worse. But I cannot tell for sure."

"Then that is enough for me," Haldar said with a small dip of his head.

Aragorn stared at him as if he had said something completely outrageous.

"How can this be enough for you?" he asked, incredulity tingeing his every word. "How can this be enough for anyone? For all we know, this might not be real! I might finally have gone insane and have started having delusions! Valar, maybe Elladan was right and that scimitar really was poisoned, and I am now hallucinating! Maybe you are not even real and I am imagining you!"

"I am quite real, my lo… Estel," Haldar assured him.

"That's what a hallucination would say, wouldn't it?"

"That is most likely true," Haldar had to concede. "But I am none."

Aragorn stared at him as if daring him to turn insubstantial and disappear, and finally leaned his head back against the tent pole.

"I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do. Why in Elbereth's name do I have these visions if I cannot change anything? So I can get there too late and just in time to find Legolas' body?"

Haldar frowned.  
"You do not know where the prince might be?"

Aragorn shot him a look that was somewhere between incredulous, annoyed and lethal.  
"If I knew that, I would not be standing here."

"He was going to patrol one of the north-western sectors…" Haldar began.

"I know that," Aragorn interrupted him brusquely, one shaking hand reaching up to massage his forehead. "Valar, I should have gone with him."

"That would not have changed anything." Haldar shook his head. "The same fate that has befallen the prince would have befallen you. We would have had no warning, and no means to find you. This way, we at least have a chance."

"A chance?" Aragorn echoed, his mouth twisting in self-reproach. "What chance? Legolas and Celylith could be anywhere. None of the others has returned yet, so we do not even know which way they took or where they started. The twins are not back yet either, who are the only people who might actually be able to help me. With Ciryon, I at least knew where to look, but this time I do not. What kind of chance does that give us – and them?"

"A better one than we've had in months," Haldar said curtly. "The captain is not here, and neither is Commander Cemendur. It is only logical, since they have a far longer distance to cover than the patrols we sent south and south-west; those are already back. The commander, Halbarad and their men will not be back till tomorrow or even the day after tomorrow; they are going to stay in the village. To make a long story short, since neither of them is here, I am in command. Even considering that we have to leave some men behind to guard the camp, I can have half a dozen men ready to go, or even eight if Ereneth and Hírgaer have got back by now. I will lead them where you tell me to. That decision is well within my rights as temporary commander, and none will contest it."

"You know the rules very well, it seems."

"Of course." Haldar gave him a quick, genuine smile. "I am under Captain Daervagor's command, and still quite young in the eyes of our people. I still remember my wild youth rather well. After all, you have to know the rules before you can break them. Otherwise, it is not nearly as amusing."

"Indeed."

"I will do what I can to help, Estel," the other ranger repeated, his eyes turning serious once more as he heard the lifelessly spoken word. "Even if you were not who you are, I would choose to aid you in any way I can."

"But that is the problem, isn't it?" Aragorn asked rhetorically, his voice quivering with an emotion that Haldar could not name. "I don't know where they are."

"You did not see anything that might give us any clues?"

"It doesn't work like that!" Aragorn snapped, anger that was directed mainly at himself laying itself over his senses until he found it hard to breathe. "It's mostly … feelings, impression, glimpses of movement and shapes. The perfect images are rare and far in between. I cannot remember enough to bring anything into a reasonable order and make sense of it! I cannot help them!"

Haldar, seeing the first signs of true, unadulterated panic on the younger man's face, slowly reached out to touch his shoulder, moving in the inoffensive way he would have used to approach a skittish fawn. Aragorn did not resist when he was led over to the one foldable wooden chair that made up their entire furniture, and before he knew what was happening, he was sitting down and Haldar was crouching in front of him, grey eyes wide and unreadable.

"I know that you are frightened and desperate, Estel," the older ranger said, clasping one of his hands with a simple, firm gesture. "I know that these visions and dreams terrify you and that you do not know how to deal with them. Lord Elrond's sons are not here to help you, and I am sorry that I am such a poor replacement for their knowledge and wisdom. I know that you do not want to talk about this, that the memories bring you pain and confuse you, and I promise you that I will never speak to you about it again unless you ask me to."

Aragorn did not say anything, eyes closed tightly as he fought off the once again spiking headache, and Haldar continued.

"But I know something else, too. I know that what you see, that your abilities are not meant as a punishment. They are a gift to you from the One, a gift that has been granted to you and your family. These visions and dreams are not meant to bring you despair. They are a warning against things to come. They are a chance, a chance to save those you care about, a chance to _change_ something. It does not feel like a gift now, I suppose, and I don't know if it ever will. But it _is_ one."

"How do you know that?" Aragorn asked, raising his eyes to look at the other man. "I was not able to save Ciryon, or Baran, or your brother. I have been able to change _nothing_! How can you believe this so fiercely?"

Haldar smiled bitterly.  
"Because if I do not, I will go mad," he answered simply. "I loved my brother, Estel, as much as you love Lord Elrond's sons and your friend. I would have given anything to be able to prevent his fate, anything to spare him such a lonely death full of pain and fear and despair. His fate could not have been changed and his death could not have been prevented, but I believe that those of others can be, that those of Prince Legolas and his companion can be. If I do not believe this, I have nothing."

Aragorn looked at him, eyes large and bright. For once he looked just as young as he really was.  
"I cannot lose him, too," he said, his voice soft. "If I could have saved him and did not, if I am the reason for his death, I will not be able to bear it."

"No matter what happens, Estel," Haldar said, his fingers tightening around the other man's, "you will not be the reason for his death. None of this is your fault."

"Oh, indeed?" Aragorn's exhale sounded vaguely like a soft, desperate laugh. "Do not fool yourself, Haldar. Moreover, do not try to fool me. _All_ of this is my fault."

"It is not." The older man shook his head. "If you wish to place the blame on someone's shoulders, look for the one in command of the orcs, or, better yet, for the one who sent them. They are responsible, not you."

"I never said I was." Aragorn's lips curled into the resemblance of a painful smile. "They may be responsible, but I am at fault. If not for me, Legolas would not be here."

"He is here because he is your friend." Haldar's smile was soft and a good deal more genuine. "He is here because he could not bear the thought of you being hurt anymore than Lord Elrond's sons, because he would rather face the danger himself than see you subjected to it. He may not like me and I may not understand him, but in this regard, we are kindred."

"He is a stubborn oaf, that is what he is," Aragorn said darkly. "And I will not have him die for me."

"Good," Haldar retorted, nodding. "Neither will I. As I said, he may not trust me, but he is your friend and a fellow warrior."

"He does trust you," Aragorn protested weakly. "He was a bit suspicious in the beginning, but that is over now."

"No." The other ranger shook his head softly. "He doesn't and he never fully will, but that does not matter. The darkness will not have him or his companion, not if the Rangers have anything to say about it."

Aragorn smiled at that, trying to imagine how Legolas would feel about being indebted to creatures as "strange" as the Rangers. If what he had seen was correct, he probably wouldn't really care, he decided. The panic that always seemed to take hold of him when he even thought about what he had seen in his vision threatened to overtake him once more, and Aragorn pushed it aside. Enough was enough.

Taking a firm hold of his self-control, he closed his eyes and allowed the dark, lingering memories to pull him down once more, into the darkness of his mind that seemed even colder than before. The terrible, oppressing fear and terror that had surrounded him earlier reached for him once more, and this time, Aragorn allowed it to touch him, to wash over him like a huge tidal wave. He would not have Legolas die for him, he repeated soundlessly, bracing himself against the rush of negative emotions that wanted to wrest his control from him and plunge him into a state of mindless panic. He would not have Legolas die for him, he would not have Celylith die for him, he would have _no one_ die for him, in Elbereth's name!

After what felt like half an eternity, he managed to establish some sort of control over the raging emotions, and the half-remembered glimpses of the images that flittered just out of his reach slowed down. The swirling maelstrom calmed, and Aragorn took a deep breath as he grasped the first one in as strong a mental hold as he could manage and examined it.

"The … hole," he began haltingly, tilting his head slightly to the side, "it is a cave, I believe. No, I am _sure_ it is. There is darkness all around it, but it is shade as much as darkness and not as oppressive as it could be. There is something next to the entrance, something tangled and brown – roots?"

"Is it high up?" Haldar asked, doing his best to keep his voice calm and level so as not to disrupt the other man's concentration.

"I … maybe." Aragorn shook his head, eyes still tightly closed. "But I don't think so. It looks more like a hillside, made of earth and mud as much as stone. There is a path, barely a path, it is crumbling and twisting and then…"

His eyes suddenly snapped open, a wild look in the silver depths, and he took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Haldar allowed him a few seconds to regain control of himself, watching how the younger man desperately tried to slow his breathing.

"And then?" he finally asked.

"Then he falls," Aragorn said curtly. "That is all I can see. Legolas falling into a dark abyss and the blackness swallowing him."

It was silent for a few more heartbeats. Aragorn swiped a hand over his forehead, surprised to find it wet with cold sweat. A lone bird began to sing, the jubilating sound seeming strangely out of place, and just when Aragorn thought that he would have to go out and strangle this unbearably cheerful creature, Haldar spoke, his forehead creased in thought.

"This darkness you spoke of, the one that was more shade than anything else – could that have been cast by tall trees? And the tangles next to the entrance, could they have been the roots of a fallen tree rather than some sort of brush?"

"Possibly," Aragorn agreed, narrowing his eyes as he tried to recreate the image. "Yes, quite possibly. Why?"

"Because I think I know the place you speak of."  
**  
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Legolas opened his eyes, only to be faced with something that might just as well have come out of one of his nightmares.

He was, in fact, not sure that he wasn't indeed trapped in one of them, even though he would have loved any shred of proof that said otherwise. Said shred refused to make an appearance, however, and so he was forced to acknowledge the possibility that this was, indeed, real.

Legolas narrowed his eyes the tiniest bit, noting absentmindedly that even that little movement hurt, and surveyed the hideous face that was so closely in front of his that he had the very disconcerting feeling that their noses were almost touching. Yellow eyes narrowed in hatred and glee – check. White, sallow skin covered with badly healed scars – check. Long, pointy ears and dark, stringy hair – check. More metal loops piercing the skin than he had ever thought possible – check. An overall ugliness that was so profound that it was hard to believe – check.

Yes, it was an orc, that much was sure. It wasn't a special one, none of those whose features had burnt themselves into his brain in fear and despair and agony, and that puzzled him for a few moments. If he remembered orcs at all, he tended to remember those ones. But then again, an orc was an orc. If you saw one, if in your nightmares or not, it was never a good thing, especially if you were an elf.

And he was one, about that Legolas was reasonably sure, even despite the pain that seemed to throb through every single part of him.

Above him, the orc's face broke into a wide smile, and he couldn't help but shudder slightly. There were things he had never wanted to see in his entire immortal lifetime, and an up and close view of every single tooth of an orc's mouth was among them. Besides, he thought foggily, he had the very disturbing feeling that whatever had made the creature smile in such a way could not possibly be good for him.

It wasn't, of course, and the orc went ahead and proved it.

"Well, look at that," it said, turning its head around to look at someone. Legolas was sure that this meant something – and nothing good at that, either – but he couldn't get his sluggish thoughts to co-operate. "The little elf's woken up. Just in time, eh, boys?"

He wasn't little, the same sluggish thoughts protested. Granted, he wasn't unnaturally tall for an elf, but he was normal. That was it. _Normal_. It was nice being normal in some regards, wasn't it?

All thoughts of normal and not normal were driven out of his mind when the dark creature shuffled forward a little more, crossing the last few inches of space that lay between them, and dragged him upright by his hair. What shocked Legolas far more than the action itself (orcs were orcs, after all, and did what orcs did) or even the pain of being dragged around by his hair was the sharp, pulsing agony that suddenly washed through him and that did not include his hair in any way.

The orcs jeered and laughed, clearly enjoying the look of pain on his face that he did not have the strength to hide, but he hardly heard them. The detached, absentminded calm from earlier deserted him as quickly as fog dispersed in the morning sun, leaving him with nothing but pain and fear. The orc let go of his hair after a last, sharp tug that seemed to rip one of his braids right out of his skull, and Legolas used the reprieve to mentally take stock of his injuries.

It did not work as well as he had hoped, and so he reluctantly opened his eyes once more, even though the last thing he actually wanted at the moment was visual confirmation of his injuries. The orc had turned away to grin at its companions, and Legolas was quite happy about it since he would have had problems schooling his features as he saw the … thing sticking out of his ribcage.

It wasn't a thing, he quickly saw. It was a branch, or at least part of a branch, and it explained why he would have liked to weep every time he had to draw breath. It couldn't have pierced his lung since he was still conscious and able to breathe normally – that had actually happened to him before and he knew very well how it felt –, but it certainly had penetrated his flesh deeply enough to make every breath and every movement pure agony. The wood didn't protrude much from his skin, only about three or four inches, but it was entirely covered in thick, dried blood. A few bright red rivulets of fresh blood could be seen, running down the broken stump for some time before stopping and dripping onto the floor, and a mixture of nausea and fresh pain forced him to avert his eyes. There were things he did not wish to see, indeed. This was yet another good reason not to go tumbling down wooded hillsides.

That only accounted for some of his pain, of course. His head hurt, but that was something that didn't surprise him overly much. In fact, he had almost expected it. Whenever he awoke to see the inside of his closed eyelids and without clear memories of having gone to sleep, he expected to wake up bound hand and foot and with a throbbing skull. There was something sticky coating the right side of his face, and he needed no looking glass to know what it was.

The orc was still conversing with the others – Valar, there were more of them, he noted only now – and so he turned his attention to his right shoulder that right now did a rather good impression of being mauled by a warg. Legolas quickly checked, just in case he had managed to miss something like that. As it turned out, there was no warg. There was only a bump where the smooth curve of his neck and shoulder should have been, and now that he thought about it, the way his hands were tied behind his back was very close to unbearable. Actually, his feet were bound as well, very securely at that, even though that – mercifully – didn't hurt as much.

Legolas slowly and very deliberately closed his eyes and let out a soft breath. If he hadn't noticed such a small matter as being tied up like a chicken destined for the cooking pot – or that there was actually more than one orc with him, for that matter –, he was in far worse shape than he'd thought. If Aragorn or Celylith ever heard about this, he would never live it down…

Memories suddenly washed over him, strangely focussed and strengthened by the pain in his chest, and Legolas could only just hold back the gasp of horror. Elbereth's stars above. Celylith.

Silver-blue eyes flew open and fearfully scanned the small room. It was more or less what he expected of a cave: Four irregular walls made of rock, dotted with a vine here and there, and a rock floor covered with a thin layer of earth. Into two small fissures a pair of small, makeshift torches had been crammed whose flames spluttered and danced even though there was no breeze at all. They shed a sick, gloomy light onto the scene that the detached part of Legolas found entirely appropriate. It was a rather small cave, maybe thirty-five foot by twenty, and under different circumstances he would have appreciated the fact that his four orcish captors were gathered in one corner of the room and he had been thrown into the opposite one; this way, he was spared at least some of their stench.

Things being as they were, nothing was further from Legolas' mind, since, no matter how well the cave fitted his expectations of what a proper cave should look like, there was one very important thing missing: Celylith, who was nowhere to be seen.

That might have been a good thing, of course, and a few years ago, he would have allowed himself to hope that his friend had somehow managed to escape. Now, however, he knew better. They just didn't get that lucky.

The orcs seemed to end their conversation, and as one they turned around, fixing him with malicious eyes. Legolas managed to hide his growing fear for himself and his friend, his expressionless, utterly controlled mask that had served him so well so many times slamming down between himself and his surroundings with a sound that was almost audible, but even that was almost not enough when he saw the expression of … greed in the orcs' eyes. He had seen that expression before, a long time ago in a cave so similar to this one that it made his blood run cold, and he knew what it meant. Just as always, his defences strengthened on their own account, sealing off that part of his memory and banning it into a far, dark corner of his mind. It had taken him decades to forget the worst bits of that particular experience, and he would be damned if he allowed them to resurface now, in this most inconvenient of moments.

"Why, he looks scared, doesn't he, lads?" the orc from earlier asked, turning to its companions with a mocking smile. "Looks good, doesn't it?"

The others cackled and nodded, and, emboldened by this, the orc strutted forward again, its metal armour and the various weapons that were fastened to haphazardly fitted loops and sheathes clanking loudly enough to make Legolas' headache worse. The elf absentmindedly wondered if that was because of the way he had hit his head on his way down the slope or because of the way the orc had used his hair as a convenient handle, and just when he had come to the decision that it was probably a mixture of both said orc had reached him and stopped in front of him, no more than a foot separating it from its prisoner.

"Have ya forgot how to speak, _ilid_?"

Legolas couldn't hide the wince that the mangled, evil-sounding word in the foul tongue of his captors elicited. The way the orc was mangling Westron was hardly better, but hearing the evil, dark speech of his foes and its constant reminders that once, so very long ago, they had been as him, that they had been of his kind … well, it was enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in horror and fear and an overwhelming _anger_ that could barely be contained.

"Where is my friend?" he asked in response, his voice as hard and calm as he could make it. He wasn't at his best, clearly, and his voice wavered a little in the beginning, but he managed to get himself under control rather quickly. It wasn't good enough to strike fear into the hearts of elven warriors, but for orcs it should be enough.

Sadly enough, it wasn't, since the orc only grinned at him, once again displaying a distressingly high number of teeth. He presented either a much sorrier picture than he'd thought or these orcs were made of sterner stuff. He actually thought that he would prefer the first.

"Why, that little silver-haired thing?" his captor asked nonchalantly, turning half-around to grin at its friends. "Feisty, that one, wasn't he, lads?"

Legolas felt as if a cold hand had reached into his chest, had wrapped itself around his heart and begun to squeeze. He had hardly enough calmness left to decide that Celylith would most certainly not appreciate being called a "little silver-haired thing", especially not by an orc. His friend could be strange like that.

"What have you done with him, _orch_?" This time, he didn't even have to try and make his voice sound cold and menacing. The implication of the orc's words was enough to turn his very core to ice.

The orc's face darkened like the night sky just before a storm broke loose, and before Legolas' still somewhat addled brain could comprehend what was going on, it had taken a step forward, its balled fist shooting out with the speed of a startled snake. Legolas, the pain in his chest distracting him considerably, had barely the time to turn his face slightly to the side before the orc's fist connected with the side of his face.

The force of the blow, strengthened by the metal-plated gloves the orc wore, smashed his skull into the hard rock wall behind him strongly enough to stun an oliphaunt, and, for a very brief, blessed moment, everything just stopped. The pain in his side faded into insignificance, his shoulder stopped throbbing and his head stopped aching, and even the black, heart-stopping terror that clawed at his insides and scratched at his control seemed to diminish. Then, however, the moment was over, lost as irretrievable as a wave flooding back into the sea, and pain exploded behind his closed eyelids, enveloping his entire being. He could no longer distinguish between one source of pain and another, his whole body shrieking with sudden, unbearable agony, and he hardly felt the following blows that rained down on his defenceless body.

He didn't know how long it had been until the orc stopped and drew back, breathing heavily and muttering expletives in its foul language. Through narrowed eyes, pain still coursing through every part of his body, Legolas watched how the orc's chest rose and fell rapidly as it glared hatefully at its captive, the movement making the ill-fitting armour that had clearly been designed for a taller human shift in ways it had never been meant to, and that detached part of him that refused to be silenced noted that it looked actually quite ridiculous. Noticing that he was watching it, the orc gave him a grin and drew back slightly, giving itself just enough room to lash out with a booted foot and catch him in his injured side, about an inch or two below the protruding length of wood.

If he had thought that the pain had been bad before, he was quickly shown how utterly, utterly wrong that assumption had been. Legolas' word disappeared in a white haze of pure, unadulterated agony that left him unable to breathe or move or think. Thankfully, it also left him with insufficient air to scream, and when Legolas managed to open his eyes again a minute later, tasting the coppery tang of blood in his mouth from where he had bit through his lower lip, he thanked Elbereth for it when he saw the slightly dissatisfied look on the orc's face.

Seeing that its prisoner was aware of his surroundings again, the orc moved forward once more, looking openly annoyed when Legolas managed to control the instinctive urge to flinch away. He would give them nothing, the elf swore himself as he glared at the dark, leering creature in front of him, not as long as he had any strength and self-control left.

Legolas thought that the orc would grab him by the hair again – this one seemed to enjoy that quite a lot –, but the creature merely crouched down in front of him without making a move to touch him. The gleeful expression on its face set the elf immediately on edge, however, a feeling that was only strengthened when the rest of the orcs cackled and shifted closer.

"What would you say, little elf, if I told you that I slit your pretty little friend's throat from one ear to the other and fed his corpse to the wargs?"

For a second, Legolas could not think, the panic and terror inside of him threatening to envelop him. He could not do this, he thought to himself. Celylith had almost died once already, less than a year ago, and he had been forced to watch him tumble down a snow-covered slope and come to a stop as no more than a broken body. He had thought his friend dead, just like the men who had ambushed them had, and that assumed knowledge, that terrible, suffocating certainty that he had lost his oldest friend had almost destroyed him. It would have destroyed him if Aragorn had not been there, about that he was certain. Celylith, stubborn idiot that he was, had somehow managed to survive what would have killed any other man or elf with enough common sense to know when they were beaten, but that experience, those horrible days of believing his friend dead had taught him something. It had taught him how ill-prepared he was to be separated from him and to bid him good-bye for good (or at least for a very, very long time), and it had made him very aware of how badly he would be able to cope.

With more willpower than Legolas knew he possessed, he managed to push these thoughts to the side. Celylith had survived once, and he would survive again. He was stubborn, obnoxious and completely unable to give up or admit defeat. This was _not_ happening. It simply couldn't.

"I would say, orc, that you were lying," he said, no trace of doubts or uncertainty in his voice. "All of your wretched kind do, after all, so why would you be an exception?"

To his utter surprise, the orc didn't hit him. It didn't even glare at him. It only tilted its head to the side, studying him for a second or two, before it started to … laugh. The others soon joined in, and so Legolas found himself faced with the bizarre situation of sitting slumped on the ground in some Valar-forsaken cave, bound hand and foot, with various parts of his anatomy in a rather bad condition and surrounded by laughing orcs. While he was willing to admit that them laughing was far better than them yanking on his hair or beating him into a bloody pulp, this situation seriously bothered his pride, and so he was almost relieved when his captors stopped howling like dogs and returned to their previous occupation, namely looking at him maliciously.

Except for the leader, of course. The orc looked amused more than malicious, and Legolas' annoyance faded and was replaced by quiet dread.

"Ah, we've got ourselves a funny one," the leader said, shaking its head and chuckling in a way that sent a spark of cold fear into Legolas' heart. The others grunted and mumbled their assent, and the orc went on, "And why would you think that, elf? For all you know, I coulda been telling the truth – and from what I know about your tree-lovin' kind, that tiny niggling doubt should drive you mad, shouldn't it?"

"No," Legolas said, shaking his aching head in a gesture of calculated indifference. "Not really."

"Oh?" the orc asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "And why's that, elf?"

"Because you don't _have_ wargs," Legolas said simply. "They are not the quietest of creatures; I would have heard them. So you must be lying, orc. My friend is still alive. It would take far more than the likes of you to kill him."

For a moment or two, it was completely silent while the orcs stared at him. Legolas, who found that the pain raging in his upper chest seriously inhibited his ability to appear unconcerned and as if he was doing nothing more than having a friendly little chat with someone he genuinely liked, amused himself with counting the crackling sounds that the torches emitted now and then. He had just reached fifteen when the tension around him was broken by the orc's leader, who shook its head and gave another guffaw of laughter.

"Smart, too," the orc said, looking at Legolas with a mixture of hatred and glee in its eyes. "Not too smart, though. What're ya doing here, elf scum?"

"Where is my friend?" Legolas simply repeated.

This time, the orc did hit him. With nausea rolling in his stomach and his head ringing, Legolas decided silently that, if he hadn't turned his head just in time, the orc's fist that was gloved in metal would easily have broken his nose.

"Now, listen to me, filth," the orc went on, nonchalantly cracking the knuckles of its right hand. "No more of that, or that bloody Elvish speech of yours. I ask the questions and you answer, it's as easy as that."

Legolas gave the creature a look that was openly incredulous, and it didn't surprise him overly much when, after a second's pause when the dark being looked almost exasperated, it hit him again. This time he was forewarned, but all he managed to do was try to roll with the blow, which didn't really work all that well, especially not backed against a wall, surrounded by four orcs and with your hands tied behind your back. All the elf managed to do was twist his shoulder in a most painful way, adding yet another source of pain to the agony that consumed his face and upper chest.

Ah well, he thought, trying to clear his vision of the bright spots that danced and twisted in front of his eyes, it had been worth a try.

The orcs' leader didn't seem to agree with him on that point. Before Legolas had fully convinced his aching brain not to try and sneak out of his skull via his ears, he found himself face to face with his captor, an experience he could have done very well without. His head still ringing so fiercely that he could only just stop his eyes from watering, Legolas found himself staring at the yellowish eyes of the orc who reached out with a long, spidery finger to touch his cheek.

The touch was cold more than anything else, the metal of the orc's glove feeling cool against his heated, bruised skin, but Legolas couldn't help but shiver at the loathsome touch. The orc seemed riveted as it looked at him, a curious mixture of hatred and something that could almost have been called longing on its hideous features. The elf tried to wrench his face out of the other's grasp, but it was in vain; all he achieved was the orc grasping his jaw more tightly, the jaggedly broken nails digging into his bruised skin.

"Ya sure are a pretty one, too," the orc sneered, causing him to struggle harder against the bruising grip. "Skagrosh would have liked playing with ya, that's for sure. Pity he ain't gonna get ya." The dark creature tightened its grip even further, and Legolas could feel how the first drops of blood trickled down his chin. "Now, pay attention, _ilid_. I'll ask only one more time. What were the two of you doing, sniffing around here?"

Legolas looked at the orc for a second, weighing his options. His imaginary mental scale with the little sign saying "Almost Certain Death" was moving steadily towards the ground, and playing it safe and trying not to antagonise his captors hadn't worked either. Having reached a decision that had been long in the making, Legolas gave the orc his sunniest smile and told it exactly what he thought about his current situation.

He told them in Sindarin, finding that Quenya – no matter its poetic imagery – simply sounded too lofty for such occasions. The fact that it couldn't understand him might have diminished the orc's enjoyment of his creative expressions somewhat, but Legolas was fairly certain that the gist of his words would be understood.

It was indeed. The orcs' faces twisted into pained grimaces as they heard the Elvish words, and in the middle of Legolas' description of what exactly he would like to do to all of them as soon as he got his hands on his knives the orcs' leader took his head by the hair and slammed his skull against the wall, hard. He must have blacked out for a few seconds, for when he became aware of his surroundings once more, there was only the orcs' leader and another orc standing in front of him, looking at him with hateful eyes.

"One of them slow ones, aren't you?" the leader asked, turning to the side to spit on the ground in disgust. Legolas still had enough presence of mind left to take note of the outrageous fact that he had just been called stupid by an orc. "Well, I think we've got something to loosen your tongue, haven't we, boys?"

Legolas seriously doubted that and was just about to tell the orc just that when a shuffling sound, interspersed with grunts and muttered curses, could be heard and made him stay silent. He knew what that meant, would have known it even without the evil smiles on the faces of the orcs in front of him, and his heart leapt in his chest, not really sure if it should feel hope or fear. Settling for something in between, Legolas did his best to look as unconcerned as he possibly could and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Less than half a minute later the other two orcs came back into view, rounding a bend in the shadowed tunnel that seemed to be the only way out of here. There were three more with them, which brought the total number of orcs up to seven. Considering that there were most likely two or three more who would have been posted as guards, he might be looking at as many as a dozen opponents, Legolas calculated. One of the three held a well-made torch, a real torch with a length of an oil-soaked rag wrapped around its one end, and Legolas immediately became suspicious. Orcs could see very well in the dark, almost as well as Elves, so the torch could not be meant to light their way. So that most likely meant that…

Legolas' thoughts came to a sudden halt, even despite the truly worrisome conclusion he'd just drawn. Between the two orcs at the front, visible now that they had drawn closer and were about to enter the cave, hung a lifeless figure he would have recognised anywhere. The other had lost his cloak and he was covered in dust and blood, but the shock of recognition that went through Legolas was so strong that his heart missed a beat.

"Celylith."

He had whispered the name before he could stop himself and closed his eyes both against the triumphant grins gracing the faces of the orcs when they heard him and the unbearable sight of his friend's still body. Panic flared to life inside of him again, bright and painful as red-hot fire, and Legolas had a hard time pushing it back. This was _not_ Esgaroth, Celylith was alive, he _had_ to be – and if he wasn't, he told himself savagely, then, by the Valar, he would return with one of his father's armies and would impress upon these worthless creatures that the Noldor weren't the only ones who could stage vengeful slaughters.

And, Eru be his witness, he would enjoy every second of it.

His moment of shock couldn't have lasted longer than a few heartbeats, but by the time Legolas opened his eyes again, the other orcs had entered the small room, dragging Celylith between them. It took them only a few seconds to cross the cave and dump the motionless elf into the corner to Legolas' left, no more than fifteen or maybe twenty feet away from him, but in their current situation it might as well have been fifteen hundred. Celylith remained where he had been thrown, his face obscured by his long, dishevelled hair and not moving a single inch, not even when one of the orcs said something to its companion in a mocking voice and kicked him in the side. The orcs turned away amongst grunts and jests, heading over to the two other dark creatures standing in front of Legolas, but he hardly noticed. All of his attention was fixed on the still form of his friend and his bound hands that were the only part of him that he could see clearly. There were small rivulets of blood running down the other elf's exposed forearms from where the bonds had cut into his flesh, staining the coarse rope that bound his hands and the bruised skin, and Legolas took a deep, slow breath to regain his composure.

Dead elves did not bleed, he told himself firmly, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of his friend's blood dripping onto the floor. Dead elves did not bleed, therefore Celylith couldn't be dead. It was as easy as that. Wasn't it?

Legolas' thoughts were interrupted by a kick to his shin that shouldn't have hurt half as much as it did, and his head whipped around. Unsurprisingly, it was the orcs' leader who had kicked him, and, now that it saw that it had its prisoner' attention, the evilly grinning creature went ahead and repeated its earlier action.

"There you are, elf," it said, the grin on its face widening even more, something that would have looked alarming even on the face of someone who didn't possess quite that many pointy teeth. "You wanted to see your friend? Here he is."

"What have you done to him?" Legolas' voice was still calm and under control, something that he didn't really understand himself. Inwardly, he was trembling with a paralysing mixture of panic, pain, fear and anger that seemed to grow by the second.

"Not all that much," the orc said, grinning at its captive. "Put up a bit of a fight, he did." The orc turned to its comrade holding the torch and bared its teeth, clearly annoyed. "Though I have to say that he was awake last I saw him. Loud, even."

Legolas gritted his teeth at the insinuation, but before he could say anything, the orc the leader had addressed spoke up, clearly trying to defend itself.  
"You told us we could have fun with him, Buzgókh. Didn't do nuthin' wrong."

"Told you to be careful, too, didn't I?" the leader retorted, baring his teeth once more. "Wouldn't want to spoil everything so soon, would we?" The other orc grumbled but didn't protest, and so Buzgókh returned his attention to the blond elf in front of him who was glaring at him so heatedly that his armour should have melted and dripped onto the cave floor to form little metallic puddles. "I'll repeat my question once more, scum: What are you doing here? Are there more of your friends about? Who knows you're here?"

Legolas resolutely didn't look at his still friend and merely raised his chin defiantly. Their absence would be noticed sooner or later – maybe even sooner if he had been unconscious as long as he'd thought. All they had to do was hang on until someone got worried enough to send out a search party. Their tracks should be easy enough to find, especially considering that their horses were still about … Varda's stars above, he hoped that these creatures hadn't got their hands on Rashwe.

Buzgókh, surprisingly enough, only smiled at his show of defiance. It wasn't a nice smile – Legolas sincerely doubted that orcs _could_ smile nice smiles – and if Legolas hadn't been quite so angry, he would have felt afraid.

"Ya really ain't all that clever," he said, shaking his head in mock sadness. "This was your friend's reaction, you know."

This time, Legolas did look at Celylith and his blood-matted hair, and his eyes were cold and dark and so very, very serious when he looked back at the orcish leader.  
"I will kill you for this, orc."

"That's what he said, too," the orc said nonchalantly. "He was a bit louder about it, though."

He turned and nodded at two of the other orcs. The two of them walked over to Celylith, gleeful anticipation radiating off them in waves that were so tangible that Legolas began to feel decidedly sick to his stomach. He could have borne whatever these creatures came up with, at least for a while, but he didn't know if he could bear watching them hurt Celylith. No, that wasn't true. He knew he couldn't.

It took them only a few seconds to drag the still elf over to the rest of their group. Once they reached their leader, they let go of the wood-elf's bound arms, causing him to crash to the ground. This time, a slight moan could be heard when he hit the hard floor of the cave, and Legolas asked himself despairingly just why people – or, more precisely, his friends – insisted on waking up at the most breathtakingly inconvenient moments.

Buzgókh took another second to grin at Legolas, a triumphant, gleeful grin full of open menace, before he crossed what little distance lay between him and the fallen elf. Crouching down and tangling his fist in the long fair hair, he jerked Celylith's head up, grinning at the bruised and bloody face thus revealed.

"You, elf! Awake!"

"Is that … a question ... or a statement?"

Celylith's voice was hoarse and soft and full of suppressed pain, but it was one of the most beautiful sounds Legolas had ever heard in his life. Dark-blue eyes open the tiniest slit, the silver-haired elf gave the orc a look of such deep, heart-felt loathing that Legolas immediately felt better. His friend was in a bad way, maybe, but he certainly wasn't broken. He was a lot like Aragorn in that matter: If he still felt strong enough to antagonise his captors, he was still (relatively speaking) all right.

Then again, that wasn't completely true. Aragorn would still be antagonising his captors if they had a warg chewing on his leg.

All Buzgókh did, however, was tighten his hold on Celylith's hair, eliciting a slight wince from the helpless elf, and he gave him a lazy grin before he turned back to Legolas.

"You're not the only funny one, little elf. Let's see how funny both of you are in a while, eh?" He nodded at one of the orcs standing next to Legolas. "Unbind him."

Legolas briefly thought about trying to resist as he was jerked roughly forward and one of his captors started loosening the ropes tying his wrists behind his back. He quickly abandoned the thought. There was no way he was getting out of this cave, at least not in his current condition and surrounding by more than half a dozen orcs. Then there was the fact that the leader could have a knife at Celylith's throat before he would even have moved more than a foot in their direction. If he had been alone, he might have risked it, but with Celylith's life hanging in the balance … no.

One of the ropes snapped while the orc behind him was tugging on it, causing it to cut even more deeply into the already bloodied and bruised skin of his wrists, and Legolas used the short respite to look Celylith over who was doing his best to hide his revulsion of being this close to Buzgókh.

Apart from looking about as bruised as he himself felt, there was a shallow cut on the other elf's left arm, at about the height of his shoulder. That must have been the blow that he had seen land, Legolas reasoned, in the exact moment he had chosen to prove beyond a doubt that yes, even wood-elves fell off things once in a while. The wound looked painful but not too deep, and it would annoy his friend more than it would truly hinder him, he reckoned.

This wasn't too bad, Legolas thought, relieved. Maybe they would be getting out of this after all. All they needed was a moment of distraction, and they would…

Then Celylith moved, trying to get away from the orc's grip before being yanked back by his hair, and Legolas' hopes turned to ashes. The other elf's entire right thigh was covered in blood. It wasn't black blood, it wasn't even dried blood, it was very red, and there was a lot of it. Through a large gash in Celylith's breeches Legolas could see a dark, crusted cut that seemed to reach from one end of his thigh to the other, and even while he watched he could see fresh, bright red blood well up in the wound. It had doubtlessly been reopened when Celylith had been forced into this awkward, half-lying and half-kneeling position, it not earlier. An axe, that detached part of him informed the elven prince. That kind of wound could only have been struck by an axe, or a halberd of some sort.

Legolas knew he must have turned pale, for Celylith looked past Buzgókh who was entertaining himself by exchanging jokes with his comrades, interspersed now and again by a violent yank on the silver hair he had wrapped around his gloved fist. The other wood-elf did his best to smile at him, trying to tell him that he was all right, but it was a tremulous and uncertain thing, that smile, and Legolas was not reassured. His friend's smile might have been weak and his face pale underneath all those bruises, but his eyes were hard and his jaw set determinedly. Legolas would have seen that as a positive sign under different circumstances, but that wound was deep. Celylith was resilient and stubborn even for a Silvan Elf, but Legolas knew enough about battlefield medicine to be aware of the fact that his friend needed help, and soon.

And, judging by the shadow lurking in Celylith's eyes, he knew it, too.

The rope binding his wrists together suddenly gave way, and before Legolas could react three more of the orcs had taken hold of him and dragged him forward on his knees. With his hands still bound securely, he could do nothing to stop them, and so he had to allow himself to be dragged until they stopped maybe three of four feet from Celylith and the other two orcs. Even though his hands were free now, he couldn't move them more than an inch. Two of the orcs were hanging on his left arm and two on his right, causing his wounded shoulder and side to shriek with pain so sharp and insistent that it made the breath catch in his throat. A fifth stepped behind him, slipping its arm around his throat, and in the moment that the spikes of the orc's bracer dug into the exposed skin of his neck, Legolas realised that he was in deep, deep trouble.

He started struggling in earnest now, even though he knew from the start that it wouldn't do him any good. Weakened as he was by blood loss and pain, it took them little time to subdue him, and before long his captors had pressed his left arm up and behind his back, forcing him to hunch over slightly if he didn't want to dislocate his other shoulder as well. His right arm was kept stretched out in front of him, two of the orcs hanging onto the upper arm and wrist. They needn't have bothered, he thought grimly. His shoulder hurt so fiercely that he thought he would pass out any second now – a possibility he was prepared to greet with no little amount of joy – and he had absolutely no strength left in it.

Buzgókh watched his struggles with that malicious, gleeful smile of his – the smile Legolas would have loved to wipe off the orc's face –, a smile that only grew bigger when Celylith automatically shifted forward, eyes narrowing as he was forced to watch his prince's futile struggles. With calm, calculating movements the orcs' leader straightened up and kicked the bound elf in the thigh, the tip of his booted foot burrowing itself into open wound. Somehow, Celylith managed only to groan, his face turning so white that it was almost translucent, and if not for Buzgókh's grip on his hair, he would have slumped forward.

One of the orcs holding Legolas in place said something in the Black Speech whose sound made the two elves wince, and Buzgókh laughed, reaching out to pat the wood-elf's face like someone else would have patted his favourite pet.

"As I said – feisty," he said, grinning at Legolas who only glared back as haughtily as an elf held in place by five orcs could. "I'm getting impatient, elf. What's you doing here? Is there more of you scum creeping through the forest?"

Legolas raised his eyebrows and favoured the orc with a look of pure venom of which his father would have been very proud.  
"Go back to the black holes from where you came, orc, or, better yet, to the caverns of Utumno where your thrice-cursed kind was spawned. I am not telling you anything."

The orc only grinned at him, twisted enjoyment visible on his face.  
"I was kinda hopin' you'd say that, little elf."

As if on an unvoiced cue, the last orc stepped forward. The torch he was holding crackled and sputtered as it was moved so abruptly, and Legolas felt himself grow cold as he read his fate in the gleaming yellowish eyes of the orc in front of him. He couldn't avert his eyes from the torch that was brought closer and closer to him, no matter how hard he tried. He was feeling strangely detached from what was going on around him, as if this was a play and he was only watching from a distance.

"No!"

That was Celylith's voice, snapping him out of his trance-like state, and Legolas turned his head just in time to see Buzgókh give his friend another strategically placed kick, causing more blood to well up in the wound and the fair-haired elf to slump back bonelessly, his face a mask of pain.

"No, no, no," the orcs' leader said, crouching back down next to the gasping elf, one of his hands still firmly tangled in his hair. "You're gonna stay right here, scum, and watch."

Legolas was about to say something, to tell this worthless, twisted creature to leave his friend alone, but then the torch was suddenly in front of him, the warmth of it washing over his chilled flesh in a great wave. He didn't have time to properly think about his predicament, which was probably a good thing for a second later the two orcs holding onto his right arm tightened their grips and thrust his exposed right hand into the torch's crackling flames.

For a second, Legolas didn't feel anything, a development he welcomed but knew wouldn't last. That second was over soon enough, and suddenly he found that the pain he had been in before had been nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to this. It grew and grew until he couldn't hold back a low scream of pain that he bit off as quickly as possible, sinking his teeth into his already damaged lower lip to stifle his sounds of pain. His hand twitched as his body instinctively tried to curl up to protect itself from the pain and damage inflicted on it, but the two orcs holding on to him tightened their grip and wouldn't let him move even an inch. The one holding him in a stranglehold leaned back, cutting off his air as the trembles spread into his entire body, and black spots joined the jolts of pain flashing in front of his eyes.

There was nothing but the agony in his hand and the terrible, sickening smell of his own burning flesh, nothing at all that penetrated the haze of horror and pain. Faintly, he could hear Celylith's voice and the gleeful jeers of the orcs, but they didn't seem to matter at all, not in face of the crackling torch in front of him and the searing pain that consumed him. It was an agonising eternity before the torch was withdrawn and the orc behind him released his throat, but even then it took Legolas some moments to realise that it was over. The orcs holding on to his arms did not let go, however, and so he slumped in their grips, nausea rolling in his stomach and cold sweat breaking out on his trembling limbs. Shock, he thought dimly. He was going into shock.

He didn't know how long he had hung there, barely held upright by the orcs surrounding them. In the end a hand closed around his chin and pulled his head up, sharp nails digging into his jaw. The small pain somehow helped him focus, and so Legolas actually managed to make out of the face of Buzgókh who was leaning over him, a satisfied grin on his face that pulled against at least two of the metal rings adorning the orc's face.

"Now, that was fun, wasn't it?" the orc asked, leaning forward so that Legolas could feel his fetid breath on his face. "Are you feeling more talkative now, _ ilid_?"

Legolas didn't have the breath to talk – and even if he had, he wouldn't have trusted himself to keep the pain out of his voice – and so he merely turned his head to the right as much as the orc's grip allowed and stared at the rock wall. His face was sharply turned back around a second later, and he found himself face to face with Buzgókh once more, who studied him with something that could only be called consummate satisfaction.

"Stubborn, ain't ya?" the orc drawled, not looking the least bit dissatisfied. "Well, all right."

Before Legolas knew what was happening, the grip the two orcs had on his arm tightened once more, and he had barely enough time to prepare himself for the agony he knew was coming before his hand was thrust back into the flames of the torch. This time, he didn't manage to hold back his cry of pain and didn't even have the strength to berate himself for it. He must have passed out for a few moments at some point, for he came to hanging between his orcish guards, his burned hand twitching uncontrollably and his entire body trembling with the intensity of the pain.

A good thing he wasn't wearing any rings on that hand, he thought absently, and the absurdity of the thought was enough to make him almost laugh out aloud.

Suddenly, Buzgókh was back, yellowish eyes wide with pleasure, and for the first time since he had woken up Legolas truly wished for unconsciousness to claim him.

"So, little elf?" the orcs' leader asked, still grinning like a madman. How appropriate, a part of him thought. "Changed your mind, has you?"

Legolas took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the orc in front of him. To his surprise, his hand wasn't jerked forward once more; in fact, nobody even hit him, and he opened his eyes again in the moment that a pained moan could be heard, uttered by a voice he knew only too well. He turned his head just in time to see Buzgókh remove his long, claw-like fingers from Celylith's leg wound, keeping the bound elf motionless with his other hand clamped around his throat. The orc studied his blood-covered hand for a moment, clearly aware of the avaricious eyes of his comrades that were fixed on him, before he brought his fingers up to his mouth and slowly and with obvious pleasure licked off the red liquid.

To Celylith's credit, he only turned very, very pale as he watched the orc with wide, very dark eyes. Legolas felt so sick to his stomach that he had to close his eyes for a moment to regain control of himself, and when he opened them again Buzgókh was grinning at him, red blood staining the corners of his mouth and some of his teeth.

"Nah, won't be feedin' him to the wargs," the orc drawled, turning slightly to grin at his comrades. "Would be a waste." He turned to Legolas, the grin turning very dark and vicious, and the elf felt how a cold shudder washed over him, causing the tremors that shook his frame to intensify. "Last chance, elf. What're two little tree-lovers like you doing here?"

The orc turned back, his hand once again moving into the direction of Celylith's wound, and Legolas quickly shook his head.  
"Nothing. We were just passing by, saw the cave and wanted to investigate."

Buzgókh's hand stopped in mid-motion as he turned back to look at the blond elf, gleaming eyes fixed steadily on the pain-darkened eyes of his prisoner.  
"So there's no more of you lurking somewhere in the woods?"

"No." Legolas shook his head again, thinking of the twins. "No, no one."

The orc's face darkened from one second to the next and he plunged his fingers into the bleeding wound, twisting them viciously and causing Celylith to groan in pain.  
"You're lyin' to me, little elf," he spat, his metal-gloved fingers sinking deeper into the wound. "You're with them rangers, I know you are! Where are they?"

Legolas' eyes met Celylith's across the few feet that separated them, and he saw in the dark-blue depths the same determination he felt himself. These orcs knew who they were and who they were with, and they would know that there were others not too far away. The twins could be right outside the cave for all he knew, and if they were as clueless as they had been – a possibility that, even considering the exceptional stupidity of their own actions, couldn't be dismissed outright –, the two Noldor could find themselves in the same situation they were stuck in at the moment.

Before he endangered the twins or Aragorn's people, he would gladly bite off his own tongue first.

Reading the elves' silence as the defiance it was, Buzgókh grinned once again, looking far too satisfied for Legolas' taste.  
"I think some stronger lessons are required, don't you, lads?"

Before Legolas' hurting brain could understand what was going on, the orc still holding him in place from behind let go of his throat, stepping around him and walking over to its leader and the other orc holding the torch. In a split second Legolas understood what was going to happen, and despite his injuries he threw himself forward, heedless of the orcs holding him back.

"No!"

He saw confusion on Celylith's face that was quickly replaced by understanding and then fear. The other elf gave Legolas a last, long look before he slowly shook his head, begging Legolas without words not to look, not to watch this if he could help it. A moment later his most emotionless mask laid itself over his face, hiding everything he thought or felt. Buzgókh didn't seem to notice, his beady eyes fixed on Legolas, who was struggling against his captors as one of the orcs took hold of Celylith's bound upper arms while the leader took the burning torch from the his comrade. The orc went to help the other restrain the silver-haired elf, and Buzgókh turned around, eyes wandering from the torch in his hand to Legolas and back again.

"As I said, you're a stubborn one, and that's for sure," the orc said with what passed for him as thoughtfulness. "Don't think you would talk even if we cut off your fingers one by one." He grinned. "Might be fun later on, though."

"Leave him alone," Legolas ground out, biting his lip as one of his captors grasped his dislocated shoulder and squeezed.

"See, that's what I thought, elf," the orc went on, ignoring his words. He turned back to Celylith, bringing the torch closer to his face until the heat started searing his bruised skin. Legolas craned his neck, but there was nothing in Celylith's eyes but the reflection of the flames that licked around the wooden stick. "You can hold your tongue, sure," Buzgókh went on, eyes fixed on Celylith's expressionless face. "But can you do it while I burn your pretty friend here? I don't think so."

Legolas strained against his captors until he felt something in his shoulder give. The pain that washed through him was so intense that he couldn't do more than hold his breath in order not to scream, and he slumped in the orcs' hold, his strength spent.

"Please." His voice was so soft that it was barely audible, but then he raised his head and looked straight at the orcs' leader. "Please, don't."

Buzgókh didn't move for a moment, watching how the bruised skin of the silver-haired elf's face reddened slightly. Celylith had turned his face to the side, his eyes closed as he took quick breaths. The two orcs holding him in place looked at their leader expectantly, and suddenly Legolas knew what would happen, knew it with awful, terrifying certainty.

"No!"

The protest had barely left his lips when the orc thrust the torch forward, and amidst the orcs' guffawing laughter and Celylith's terrible cry of pain Legolas felt how his heart froze inside his chest, and all he could do was close his eyes and turn his head away.

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**TBC...**

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_ilid (Black Speech) - •elf, •elves. A word for "Elf" does not appear in what we have of the BS, so I am using a creation suggested by some Tolkien scholars. It is - as I would say - a perversion of the Old Sindarin word "eledh" (pl. "elidh"), meaning "elf (-man)". See also the word "Golug" (UT:92), an orcish word for the Noldor, where Tolkien also stated that the Orcs took "what they could of other tongues and pervert(ed) it"."Golug", of course, can be traced back to the Sindarin "golodh" (pl. "gelydh"), meaning Noldo. So, even though it's rather probable that "ilid" (or a derivation thereof) existed in one of the myriads of dialects of the BS, it's not canon. But it's reasonably close. •g•  
orch (Sindarin) - orc, goblin _

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Yes, I KNOW I am evil. Poor Legolas - and poor Celylith, for that matter. No need to call the CLF, really. Neither of them is dead - yet. Well, at least I think they aren't. •evil grin• Sorry for not including the twins, btw, but this last scene somehow got away from me. They are in the next chapter, I promise, when we also find out whether or not Haldar really knew the place Aragorn spoke off. All bets are off on that one, if you ask me... As always, reviews are loved, cherished and adored and will help my teeth (or rather the places where my teeth used to be) heal. Thank you!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**As always, my apologies to some people, this time to A Random Person, Friendly-Lunatic, Mirwen Sunrider, KyLaa and Tatsumaki-sama. Since I reply to reviews via a big group email, I need valid email addresses. Therefore - if you wish to be included in said email - remember either to log in before reviewing (and then there has to be an email address listed on the profile page) or to leave your email address should you wish to review anonymously. Thank you, and sorry for the inconvenience!**


	20. The Better Part of Fear

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Guys, I'm sorry. Really. I just ... well, it's hard to explain, really. I guess my post-graduation panic came a little early. Heck, it could be a midlife crisis for all I know, come 20 years early. Bottom line: I switched my majors, which, considering that I have only about one more semester to go, might not have been the most intelligent idea. I think I made the right choice, but hey, who knows. Plus, I got a new job, which is even fun most of the time, but it's also in the evenings and during the weekends, which means that I have even less time to write now.**

**But hey, here I am! I am leaving for Portugal tomorrow, but I'll be taking my laptop this time, so I can keep writing. This week will be quite stressful, but then I guess so is everyone's, so close to the holidays. Since we probably won't be 'seeing' each other before Christmas, I'll seize this chance to wish you a Very Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays!**

**So, to celebrate this very cheerful occasion, I give you the next chapter, which is actually rather full of very unhappy people. Aragorn's unhappy, which is probably Amlaith's fault, the same goes for Haldar, and Rashwe is back and busy terrorising innocent rangers. Oh, and Legolas wakes up, realises that the Valar hate him and is unhappy, too. Which would be Buzgókh's fault. Did I mention that that name is fiendishly hard to type? Well, I'm mentioning it now. •g•**

**Enjoy and review, please! **

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Chapter 20

He was not going to panic.

He most definitely and decidedly was not going to panic. It wasn't going to help anybody, it would embarrass him and, if he was really unlucky, it would bring back the headache that he had got rid of no more than half an hour ago.

The only problem with this was, Aragorn admitted to himself, that no one had informed his mind of that particular resolution. Inwardly, he was trembling with a mixture of worry and fear and uncertainty, and Eru alone knew why he had so far managed to control himself and present a façade of cool certainty to the rest of the world.

He had to be a much better actor than he'd thought.

"Anything?" he called out. "Any sign of them at all?"

He mostly spoke in order to keep himself from fidgeting even more. Haldar, apparently having seen just how close to turning into a complete mental wreck he really was, had handed him a torch and had told him to stay behind him. Under normal circumstances, Aragorn wouldn't even have graced that with a comment, let alone an answer. Now, however, he was nothing more than Estel, an orphaned _dúnadan_ having grown up in Elrond's House, and he had no right to tell Haldar anything, least of all what to do.

Nor did he wish to, if he was perfectly honest. He didn't trust himself with this, wasn't sure if he trusted himself with anything at the moment, and he had been more than a little relieved when Haldar had shown him a way out of the hopeless darkness that had been surrounding him, even though the chances of success were slim to nonexistent.

Still, he had allowed himself to hope, even if just a little, and now he chided himself for being a fool with all the bitterness that was in his heart.

"Nothing," one of the others said, giving him a careful look that bordered on pity. "Nothing, I am sorry."

Aragorn bit his lip and merely lifted the torch higher, trying to increase the size of the circle of light that the torch cast on their surroundings. The flickering light reflected off the metal of their weapons and the buckles of their clothing, making the grey rock of the cave appear even more lifeless, and he had to bite back a sound that was somewhere between angry, frustrated and panicked.

This was not working. The worst thing was that he had never truly expected it to work, and that even despite this fact, he could feel his control slipping. To be fair, Haldar had never said he knew where Legolas and Celylith were. He had only said that he thought he did. Unfortunately, it turned out that they had dragged six men quite literally out of their tents and plunged the entire camp into chaos for nothing. Well, or into what passed for chaos for the Rangers. Everybody had been very composed and full of purpose, of course, and to claim that there had been a sense of panic in the camp would have been saying too much, but the guards they had left in the camp hadn't exactly been calm.

Nobody was really calm at the moment, which Aragorn considered only appropriate. This was the second cave they'd searched, and just like the first time they were coming up empty-handed. It didn't come as a big surprise to him, since this was how their luck usually went, but, just for once, it would have been nice to have the Valar smiling upon them.

"They have never been here," the other ranger went on, shaking his head. Aragorn didn't know him well and had only been told his name once (and that in passing), but the ranger looked at him with deeply saddened eyes. "We would have found some sort of tracks, especially if they were attacked or suffered an accident."

"Oh, they did," Aragorn muttered. He looked fixedly at the flames of the torch, unable to bear the compassion in the other ranger's eyes. "They did."

"Are you sure?" a new voice asked, and Aragorn closed his eyes. "I mean, are you really, really sure about that?"

Haldar had gathered what men he could, which hadn't turned out to be all that many. He had spoken of half a dozen, and half a dozen they were. Well, actually they weren't, and that was the problem. If they had been six, he would have been happy, but they weren't. They were seven. Somehow – and he had no idea how – Amlaith had convinced Haldar that they should take him as well, even despite his broken arm. Haldar had probably decided that – since Hírgaer and Ereneth hadn't returned by the time they left and were unavailable – they needed whatever help they could get, and Aragorn didn't even disagree with him. He only wished said help wouldn't include Amlaith, who was still not making any effort to disguise the fact that he distrusted him.

Taking a deep breath, Aragorn turned around, the torch shedding a sickly light on the other man. Amlaith was standing in front of him, sarcastic grin adorning his face, looking slightly lopsided due to the heavy bandage wrapped around his broken left arm. Aragorn felt how a scowl slowly began to lay itself over his features. He had neither the patience nor the will to deal with the most paranoid ranger he had ever met.

"I am sure," he said, voice pressed and forcedly controlled. "I am very, very sure."

Amlaith only raised an eyebrow in a way that clearly stated what he thought of the veracity of that particular statement, and Aragorn clenched his teeth to keep in the uncouth words that were on the tip of his tongue. He didn't really know how he did it, but Amlaith had the very rare gift to infuriate him with a single word or gesture. Come to think of it, he was quite like Elladan in that regard.

"Oh, is that so?" If Aragorn hadn't known better, he'd actually have said that Amlaith was enjoying himself. "And how do you know that? Oh, let me guess: A hunch. Or another misunderstanding."

"No." Aragorn shook his head. It was more a jerky movement than anything else. "Not a misunderstanding. Do you really think I would risk the lives of six of our people if I wasn't completely sure that something was amiss?"

Amlaith pressed his lips together, grey eyes dark and narrowed in suspicion.  
"I wish I knew."

Aragorn actually felt how the last threads of his patience snapped. He had spent the past few hours worrying about Legolas and Celylith. He felt the terrible certainty that something horrible was happening to them, happening to them right now while he was stumbling from cave to cave. The twins weren't back yet and no one knew where they were, adding yet another spark of worry to the flames that ravaged his consciousness. His head still hurt whenever he tried to remember what he had seen, and he felt helpless, useless and – worst of all – completely clueless, as if he was stumbling through the dark with the night vision of a blind man.

To make it short, he was in no mood for Amlaith's vague insults.

"If you have a problem with me, Amlaith, have at least the courage to say it to my face." Aragorn's voice was only one step away from a growl. "If you do not, I would advise you to remain silent. I am not in the mood for this."

"Oh, but neither am I, Strider," Amlaith retorted, looking rather calm in face of this imminent explosion. "I am simply wondering about the … coincidence that brought us here. The selfsame coincidence that also left the camp more or less undefended. Strange how these coincidences just appear, isn't it?"

Aragorn ground his teeth so hard that he wondered why they hadn't started cracking yet. He had just contemplated what exactly the chances of success of taking the torch and hitting the other ranger over the head with it would be – above average, at least in his opinion – when a tall figure smoothly slid in between the two of them. When the angry red cloud in front of his eyes had receded sufficiently, Aragorn could see that it was Haldar, who looked almost alarmed. He couldn't even blame the older ranger, he guessed. He for his part had been only half a step away from doing Amlaith bodily harm.

"That's enough now, don't you think?"

Haldar's voice was calm and so soft that none of the other rangers in the vicinity could hear him, but Aragorn immediately felt as he had when he had been eight years old and been caught sneaking a knife out of one of the armouries. It had been one of the first times Glorfindel had been truly angry with him, and Aragorn still remembered the way he had looked at him, with disapproval and shock and disappointment radiating off him. Then, of course, Glorfindel had dragged him off to Elrond's study where his father – one of the few times the half-elven lord had ever truly lost his temper with him – had yelled at him for at least half an hour.

He doubted that Haldar would resort to that, but if the expression on the other ranger's was anything to go by, he would knock both their heads together until they saw some sense.

"What seems to be the problem here?" Haldar asked again, eyes wandering from one of the younger men to the other. "You do realise we are standing in the middle of a possibly orc-infested cave?"

Aragorn couldn't quite decide if he should glare at Haldar or Amlaith, and in the end, just to be fair, settled for glaring at both of them.  
"I do realise that. Someone else seems to have some problems with the concept, however."

Aragorn had thought it impossible, but the glare Amlaith sent in his direction was even more heated and deadly than the previous ones.  
"I have no problem with that particular concept. I have a problem with the fact that we are here because of a hunch of someone who…"

"Are you questioning my ability to make decisions, Amlaith?" Haldar's voice was soft, almost gentle, but there was steel beneath it that was impossible to miss. "Do you think I would have led us here if I hadn't thought it necessary?"

Even Amlaith couldn't miss the menace in the older ranger's eyes, no matter how focussed he was on glaring at Aragorn for everything he was worth. And no matter how belligerent he was feeling, he was neither stupid nor insane enough to question Haldar's authority.

"No, sir." Amlaith shook his head, backing down. "I don't."

There was a barb aimed at him somewhere in that, Aragorn thought, disgruntled. He didn't really know where, but there _was_ one. Haldar seemed to entertain similar thoughts, for he gave the younger man a long look, his face stern and forbidding and promising punishment in form of kitchen duty for the rest of Amlaith's stay should his words not be obeyed. Haldar wasn't quite as good as Daervagor at it, Aragorn thought, but it was rather close. He was younger than the captain, after all, and would surely get just as intimidating with time.

"Then I would suggest you return to the entrance," Haldar said, his tone of voice somewhere between frozen and arctic. "If you have enough time to quarrel with each other, I am sure you have enough time to inform the others that we will be leaving in five minutes." Amlaith nodded curtly and turned around, and the older ranger added, "A word, Estel?"

Aragorn waited until Amlaith was out of earshot before he allowed himself to slump against the wall of the narrow passageway. The other rangers had already headed back to the entrance of the cave which meant that the two of them were alone. _Unfortunately_ they were alone, Aragorn thought darkly. There was no sign of Legolas or Celylith and no sign that they had ever been here, no matter how closely they had looked. And, considering the keen eyes of the Rangers, that meant that they most likely really had never been here at all.

"I am sorry," Haldar said, bringing him out of his thoughts. "I really am. I thought I knew the place you were talking about."

"Don't be, Haldar," Aragorn said tonelessly and shook his head. The rough stone of the uneven wall caught on his hair and he closed his eyes for a moment. "Don't be. You did your best. No one could ask more."

"Oh, but I can." Haldar shook his head as well. "I do ask more. I shouldn't have got your hopes up.

"I am glad that you did, in a way," Aragorn said, and found to his surprise that he meant it. "As they say, the better part of fear is hope."

"They do?"

"No," Aragorn replied. "But they should."

"Maybe," Haldar agreed. "But I still shouldn't have brought the others out here." A sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he, too, leaned tiredly against the wall. "Valar. The captain is going to kill me."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Aragorn said, not really doing a good job at cheering up the other man. "He is going to kill me first. I don't think he will be angry enough to go on a killing spree after that."

"Thank you." Haldar gave him a wry look. "That is very reassuring to hear."

"You couldn't have known." Aragorn's voice was hollow, and he had to tighten his grip on the torch. He was feeling slightly faint again, and he hoped it was because of the stale air in this cave and not because he was about to lose consciousness again. It would be annoying, not to mention embarrassing and potentially painful. "The fault is mine. How could you have identified the place by my rambling description alone?"

"There is still another possibility," Haldar told him, clearly trying his best not to look as disheartened as Aragorn felt. "I don't know if it is a real chance or if I am seeing what I want to see, but it's possible. It's no more than ten or fifteen minutes away, even if we are very careful and send out a vanguard."

"Then let's go," Aragorn said, pushing himself off the wall and doing his best to hold on to the last shreds of hope he could still find in his heart. "The others should be ready by now."

"Yes," Haldar agreed, following the younger man as he began to walk down the twisting passageway. He frowned and shook his head, his eyes dark and solemn in the flickering light that the torch cast. "Maybe we should have waited for Lord Elrond's sons after all."

"Maybe," Aragorn admitted evenly. "But we couldn't have risked waiting for even longer than we already did. We still have a chance to find Legolas and Celylith, small as it is. If we had waited for the twins, that chance would already be gone."

"We _will_ find the two of them. I promise you that."

Aragorn stopped for a second and smiled at the older man, but there was absolutely no mirth in his eyes.  
"Yes, I would say we will."

The 'But will we find them in time?' went unsaid, but Haldar could almost hear it ringing in his ears for the entire time they needed to reach the cave's entrance. The other rangers were waiting, most of them already mounted and ready, and Aragorn looked straight ahead, eyes fixed on Ráca's gleaming, dark coat as he walked over to his horse. The same pity and compassion he had seen earlier was visible on the other men's faces, sometimes mixed with hope, sometimes with some sort of weary resignation, and it was the very last thing he could bear right now.

"Whereto now, Haldar?"

It was Lhanton who had asked the question, and Aragorn once again thanked Haldar for taking him with them. Even though they'd had to leave Serothlain behind – Haldar had thought it better for him to stay with the men guarding the camp, and considering the other man's mood and distraction Aragorn couldn't say that he disagreed –, Lhanton was calm and a steadying influence. The dark spark in his eyes said rather clearly that he wanted to find Legolas and Celylith almost as badly as Aragorn did, and, remembering Lhanton's devastation at Ciryon's death, Aragorn could understand him only too well.

Revenge could be a strong motivator, indeed.

"There is still one possibility we haven't explored yet," Haldar answered, letting his eyes wander over the small group in front of him. "It is no more than fifteen minutes away, so even if we find nothing, we should be back at camp not much later than midnight."

"And hopefully before the captain returns," someone muttered, and Aragorn silently agreed. Daervagor's reaction at finding them gone should be … interesting.

"Which one, the cave close to the road? The one whose entrance is almost completely overgrown by that young oak tree?" another ranger asked. It was Eldacar, Aragorn saw, a ranger of about the same age as Haldar. "I can't imagine why they would try and enter that one. I don't think even an elf could fit through the gap between the tree and the entrance."

"No one could," Lhanton said, shaking his head. "Not even a pair of elves, unless their bones are a lot more flexible than ours."

"I was actually talking about the hollows close to that cave," Haldar hurried to interject. "There are a number of smaller, shallower caverns in that hillside. None reaches as deeply into the rocks as the large one, but these are easily accessible. There is at least a possibility that they stopped there, out of whatever reason."

"That could explain why they are not back yet." Lhanton nodded thoughtfully. "I know those hollows you speak of, Haldar. They are unstable."

"In which case they would be in trouble," Amlaith said, his tone carefully emotionless. Aragorn, who was swinging himself into the saddle, would have liked to throttle the other ranger. "One of those caverns might have collapsed on them."

"A good thing we brought the necessary tools, then," Haldar said, cutting off all further speculations. "Eldacar, Tarcil, you take point. Estel and I will be the rearguard. The rest of you, keep your eyes open. If we are wrong and there is something else going on here but a collapsed cave, we need to be prepared."

The rangers nodded and waited for Eldacar and his companion to take point. It didn't take long before they were moving again, and Aragorn allowed Ráca to fall in step with Haldar's horse, holding on to the last shreds of his patience with all his strength. The urgency inside of him had not abated, and by now his heart was beating so quickly against his ribs that they actually hurt. It didn't help at all that he still felt faint every other minute, even though he was beginning to get used to that.

It probably wasn't a very good sign either.

"How likely is it that they are there?" he finally asked quietly, giving Haldar a quick look.

The other ranger kept scanning their surroundings, grey eyes sweeping over the deep shadows lining the dark road, before he turned to look at him.

"I am not completely…" he began, before he shook his head, seeing the expression on Aragorn's face. "Not very good. But if you are right and something did happen to them on this road, it's the only other possibility I can think of. We started searching from the west, but even considering that they started on the other end of the road this should be the last possibility. I can't think of any more caves in the vicinity they might have stumbled over just like that, even considering how far elven eyesight reaches."

"I thought so," Aragorn said.

Amlaith shot him a long look, but didn't say anything for a little while. It was hard to see in the darkness that surrounded them. They had extinguished the torches as soon as they had left the cave, knowing that every evil creature in a two-mile radius would be drawn to the light. There was nothing but the light of the stars and the sickly light of the moon to guide them, and even though the Rangers' eyesight was keen, at least for that of mortals, Aragorn thought that this night was particularly dark and menacing.

It was a feeling he was imagining, he was rather sure about it, but one he couldn't shake off no matter how hard he tried.

"Amlaith…" the other ranger finally began.

"Is a hothead," Aragorn ground out, forcing his hands to unclench from around Ráca's reins. "And if he doesn't take care, I will do something I will most certainly not regret."

"He is that," Haldar admitted. He paused for a moment, grey eyes tracking the flight of a disturbed night bird, before he turned back to Aragorn. "I don't know him very well. He only stayed with us for some days after delivering some message or other, and I had to leave on an errand shortly after his arrival. He almost exclusively talked with Serothlain and Ciryon. He was quite friendly with the commander, too, I believe."

Aragorn mumbled something under his breath that not even the most well-meaning of persons would have called complimentary.  
"I can imagine."

"My point is," Haldar went on, "that he is behaving unreasonably hostile towards you. I cannot account for it."

"He doesn't trust me," Aragorn said succinctly. "Not an inch. And he lets me feel it. He blames me for his friend's death, at least partly."

"I am beginning to think that it is more than that." The older ranger shook his head. "There is something strange going on here."

If Aragorn had any spark of humour left, he would have laughed.  
"I would say so." Haldar looked at him so darkly that he put even the night surrounding them to shame, and he added, "What is it you are saying, Haldar?"

"I am saying that I am beginning to question Amlaith's motives," Haldar said evenly. "I am beginning to think that there may be more to his hostility than meets the eye. As soon as the captain returns tonight – and if he doesn't kill me outright –, I will advise him to send him back to his company." He frowned. "Even though that may not be the best course of action under these circumstances. We might want to keep him under close surveillance, just in case."

"Are you saying he is the one we are looking for?" Aragorn asked, incredulous. "That he is the one responsible for all this, the one I keep seeing in my dreams? Because if you are, you are even worse than Elladan."

"Am I?" Haldar raised an eyebrow questioningly. "I wish I could agree with you. I wish I could, with any amount of certainty at all, disavow any allegations against him on the grounds that he is a fellow ranger and therefore above questioning and doubt. But I cannot."

"You did not see his face when we found Baran." Aragorn shook his head firmly. "You did not see the horror and anguish and pain. He could have had nothing to do with this. Baran was his friend. I am sure he would have done nothing to harm him."

"I am not contesting that," Haldar said. "I saw him when he returned to the camp that night with his friend's body, and I am as certain as you are that his grief was real and deep. But that doesn't prove that he has nothing to do with all this. He might have never meant for it to come to this. Baran's death might have been an accident."

Aragorn shuddered, his eyes briefly closing as grisly images of Baran's ravaged body danced in front of his eyes.

"That was no accident," he said. His voice was cool and devoid of all doubts. "It took him a long time to die, Haldar. Days, even. There is no way Amlaith would have allowed that to happen to his friend."

"Maybe he didn't know," Haldar offered. "Maybe it was already too late when he realised what was going on, when he realised who the next victim was. And maybe he wasn't in the position to influence what was happening."

"Maybe," Aragorn admitted. He was far too realistic – and experienced – to dismiss the theory outright, even though his forehead remained creased in thought. "It is possible. But I will eat my own overcoat if it is true."

"That should be an interesting sight."

"Indeed," the younger ranger agreed. "Truly, Haldar, I cannot imagine how he could have done such a thing. I hardly know him, true, but … it just doesn't fit."

"The same could be said about any of our men.." Haldar's eyes narrowed. "I would be willing to swear on my children's lives that none of our company would betray their own or their allies. But there is someone I don't know as well as I'd always thought, that much is clear."

Aragorn had to suppress a quick, irrational chuckle that was absolutely not a hysterical giggle. He didn't know what was so funny in the first place and wouldn't have been able to figure it out if his life depended on it. The bad feeling he had been trying to ignore for the past few hours he had spent stumbling through Valar-forsaken caves was back, and all this talk about Amlaith and traitors wasn't exactly calming him down at all.

"I never asked about your family, Haldar," Aragorn said, trying to get his hysterical, irrational amusement under control. Not even their surroundings provided him with a convenient distraction: Nothing was to be seen, the undergrowth was quiet, and all they could hear were the quiet sounds of the forest and muffled hoofbeat. "I know I should have."

"We have been busy, Estel," the older man said with a small smile that was somewhere between puzzled and indulgent. "We are fighting against an unseen foe and a new catastrophe seems to be happening every other hour. It is quite understandable."

"But I should have," Aragorn stressed. Even to his own ears his voice sounded strained and irrational. "It was rude of me. Tell me about them."

"I have two," Haldar said, shooting him a puzzled look. He clearly expected Aragorn to fall off his horse in another fit, and Aragorn couldn't even bring himself to blame him for it. "A son and a daughter. They are both still young, but they are growing like weeds!" Aragorn nodded, a rather forced smile on his lips, and Haldar's frown deepened. "It is quite all right, Estel. I, myself, confess to not having asked about yours overly much."

"There is not much to ask, after all." Aragorn shrugged.

"Oh, but there is." Haldar shook his head in disagreement. "I could have asked you about Lord Elrond, or your brothers and those you grew up with … or the captain."

"Yes." Aragorn's eyes grew steely at the mention of his mother's cousin. "You could have. And you would not have received an answer."

"The two of you are stubborn," Haldar said mildly.

"Has one of my brothers put you up to this?" Aragorn asked suspiciously. For a moment, even the panic hammering against his ribcage lost its importance in face of this old, well-known irritation. "I don't understand how they could have dragged you into this, but I wouldn't put it past them. They are crafty."

"That they are," the other ranger admitted without a second's hesitation. "But they would rather move to Mordor than ask me for a favour."

Aragorn had to admit that this was most likely true. Haldar and his brothers had managed to come to an accord, a sort of cease-fire, but they didn't really like each other, and he seriously doubted that that would ever change.

"What is between Daervagor and me remains there – between him and me," he went on, giving Haldar a hard look that positively dared him to defy him.

"I understand that," Haldar said, unbothered. "It's just that I know him, and have known him for many years. He can be … difficult, even if he doesn't mean to be." He frowned. "Admittedly, I believe that, most of the time, he means to, but that is beside the point. The point is that he can be a harsh man."

"I know that."

"It is hard to miss, yes," Haldar said. "But acknowledging a thing and truly knowing it are two very different things. Especially if it concerns matters such as these."

"I really don't think now is a good time to discuss this," Aragorn said, in a last attempt to change the topic. He really wasn't sure what was worse: Flying into a mindless panic or having to content with his brothers' latest minion bent on getting him 'to talk about it all'. He wasn't completely sure how the twins had managed to bribe (or, knowing them, probably blackmail) him to do it, but they must have. "Considering the entire possible-death-of-my-friends, orc-infested-caves and death-and-doom thing."

"Possibly not," Haldar conceded, giving their surroundings another quick look. There was never a warg attack when you needed it, Aragorn thought darkly and only half in jest. "But then again, every single time we seem to have a chance to pause and take a breath something terrible happens. We might have a better chance to talk about this in the middle of a crisis."

Before Aragorn could point out that this was interesting logic indeed, a flash of something to his left caught his eye, making him swivel around. His wounded left side didn't thank him for it, but adrenaline overcame pain and he had already thrown himself off his horse before he had fully realised what he was doing, sword half-unsheathed. He dimly heard Haldar mimic a night owl, the signal they had agreed on as a warning to the others. The hooting sound was low and sounded completely authentic, and for a moment Aragorn thought he had heard a real owl. Then Haldar was beside him, the blade of his sword gleaming dimly in the starlight, and he dismissed the notion as foolish.

Exchanging a quick look with Haldar and absently acknowledging the sound of hoofbeat that heralded their companions' arrival, Aragorn took a step forward, off the road and into the undergrowth. There was a tall tree to his right, the trunk dark and blank and the branches reaching out to them like gigantic, pleading fingers, and he rounded it, sword held high and at the ready. The blackness was deeper here, more absolute and so reminiscent of the darkness that filled his dreams that he had to swallow hard to keep the ever-threatening panic at bay.

Another movement to the right made him move and bring his sword up in a fast parry … only to have his sword arm nearly bitten off at the shoulder.

Aragorn stumbled back, cursing viciously under his breath. The large white teeth had actually ripped a hole into his cloak and shirt – damn it all, that had been his favourite shirt –, having missed his arm by mere inches. Whatever had nearly maimed him found his shock very amusing, at least judging by the dark, malicious snort it uttered, and Aragorn found himself lowering his sword, eyes wide and surprised. He only too keenly felt Haldar's surprise and wariness that slowly but surely transformed into amusement.

Aragorn slowly sheathed his sword, careful not to move too quickly or unexpectedly. His guarded movements elicited another snort of amusement, and, just for a second, he tiredly closed his eyes.

"Rashwe?" he finally asked, fatalism clearly audible in his voice.

A sound behind him that sounded suspiciously like a bitten-off chuckle made him turn around. Haldar stood behind him, face carefully expressionless in face of his young lord's anger. Even in the dim light Aragorn could tell that the other man's eyes were exceedingly bright, and if one possessed good eyes, one could see the telltale, tiny quivers of his mouth.

Aragorn possessed very good eyes indeed.

Not even saying the uncomplimentary words that were on the tip of his tongue looked like an attractive prospect right now, and so he turned back to the horse. Rashwe, clearly unhappy about and unused to being ignored, butted his head against his chest with enough force to push him back a pace or two.

"Easy now," he said, inconspicuously trying to get out of the horse's range. Judging by the sneering expression the animal wore – who'd have thought that horses could sneer at you like this? –, he wasn't very successful. "You don't really want to kill me, now do you? Legolas wouldn't be very happy about that."

The horse seemed to consider this for a moment or two. Apparently having come to a decision, Rashwe inclined his head and butted it against Aragorn's shoulder again, even harder than the first time.

"Stop that!" Aragorn ground out, biting back a sound of pain. "Where is your master?"

Aragorn half-expected the horse to answer his question. Rashwe, however, while clearly intelligent enough to talk if he had only thought it compatible with his dignity, just as clearly didn't see the need to. Dodging yet another headbutt, Aragorn all but jumped backwards, not really knowing if he should feel annoyed or scared. He had never really got along with this horse, no matter how firmly Legolas insisted that it was a lovely, friendly creature, even though it could have been worse. Normally, Rashwe wasn't actively trying to kill him. The twins had literally spent nights sleeping in trees to avoid being eaten.

That the animal was now all but headbutting him into the direction of the road just couldn't be a good sign.

Deciding to try and retain as much dignity as he possibly could, Aragorn made a mad, possibly suicidal dash for the horse's reins. If he was being dragged back to the road by a horse – elven or not –, he would at least make it look as if he was the one in control.

"Estel, what…?!"

"It's Rashwe," Aragorn said, doing his best to keep his footing as the large white horse plunged through the undergrowth. It was probably a superfluous thing to say, but still.

Haldar's silence was so profound and resounding that Aragorn feared going deaf for a second. A moment later he had to worry about far more important things, because he reached the road – or rather was dragged onto the road – and found himself face to face with seven rangers and their horses. He wasn't sure who looked more puzzled, the men or their mounts, but he didn't really think it mattered all that much.

Aragorn resisted the urge to hide behind the increasingly irritated-looking Rashwe. Only the knowledge that the horse would most likely maul the other rangers actually stopped him. Lhanton, who was the one closest to him, only raised an eyebrow at him, looking eerily like Elrond for a moment. He was quite sure he had never been happier to hear Haldar's voice than just then.

"We found Lord Legolas' horse."

"It looks more as if it found you."

Aragorn wasn't sure who had said that, even though he strongly suspected Lhanton or Amlaith. Probably Amlaith, he decided in a fit of not very misplaced ill will.

"Well, yes," Haldar said, that unvoiced chuckle still audible in his voice. "But that is actually a good thing."

Lhanton opened his mouth, sarcastic comment already on his lips, when he thought better of it, grey eyes narrowing.  
"It wouldn't just run off, would it?"

If Aragorn hadn't been so anxious, he would have howled with laughter.  
"Rashwe? _Run off_?"

"A simple No would have sufficed." This time, Aragorn was sure it had been Amlaith who said the words.

"The two of them have to be somewhere close by," Aragorn went on, doing his best to ignore the other ranger. "There is no blood or any other kind of sign that Rashwe – and by extension Legolas – was involved in a fight, but elven steeds are loyal and intelligent. Rashwe wouldn't have abandoned his master if there had been any other choice or unless Legolas ordered him to." He paused. "And, considering his previous behaviour, most likely not even then."

"The hollows close to the blocked cave are a good bet, then," Haldar said. His voice was even and calm, and Aragorn couldn't help but envy him for his composure. His own heart was beating so quickly in a mixture of hope and fear that he found it hard to find the time to breathe. "There is a smaller cavern right next to the tree blocking the cave's entrance. We should start there. Lhanton, you and Amlaith…"

"What tree?"

It was Tarcil who had asked the question, one of the rangers who had taken the vanguard. He was a young man about ten years older than Aragorn, and his words came so completely unexpected that it took everybody else a few heartbeats to comprehend them.

"What did you say?" Aragorn finally asked.

"I asked, what tree?" the other ranger repeated patiently. "Just before we heard your signal and turned back, we rounded a bend in the road and I could see the cave you spoke of, Haldar. It is rather high up that hillside, isn't it? About forty or fifty feet, maybe even sixty?"

"Yes," Haldar said, exchanging a quick look with Eldacar and Lhanton. "Yes, it is."

"Well, you know that I am usually stationed to the south and therefore do not know these parts quite as well as you do," Tarcil went on, seeming a little nervous all of the sudden at finding himself the centre of attention but steadily continuing, "but I have good eyes. The cave was far away, but the moon was uncovered by clouds and the light was sufficient. There was no tree blocking the entrance, about that I am sure."

For a few moments, everybody remained completely motionless. It was quiet enough so that you could hear small animals scuffle through the undergrowth.

It didn't last very long, however, and in retrospect, Aragorn was quite sure he had never seen so many grown men spring into action quite that fast.  
**  
****  
****  
**

He had been staring at the rock wall in front of him for the past hour or so, and still none of his captors had realised that he was in fact awake.

Things were starting to look up.

If Legolas hadn't been hurting so badly, he would have laughed out loud. But somehow he had enough presence of mind left to hold on to whatever self-control he still possessed, and he had the very definite feeling that laughing would result in one of three things: One, his chest would explode, two, the orcs would return to torture him some more, or three, he would pass out.

Out of those options, he knew very well which one he'd pick.

Somebody, somewhere, should have realised they were missing by now. He wasn't exactly sure how long they had been here, even though he guessed that it was something along the lines of twelve to fifteen years, but he was quite certain that it had been long enough. Maybe he should stand up and get some help. Yes. That sounded good.

Just before Legolas started to turn around to try and climb to his feet, the part of his brain that was still capable of reasonable thought (which was still working no matter how much it had been diminished) decided that enough was enough and did the equivalent of ringing a large bell. His head quite literally ringing – something that, quite frankly, could also have been due to the many hits to the head he had taken today –, Legolas winced and only just stifled a moan. Right. The orcs. That would have been a bad idea.

He wasn't sure what would be a good idea, even though he assumed that lying as still as possible and pretending to be unconscious was as good a guess as any.

He shifted the slightest bit and barely managed to bite back a scream. The sudden surge of pain washing through his body helped clear his head a little, and even gave him the energy to open one of his eyes. Not too much, of course, but just enough to get a glimpse of his surroundings. He was, after all, not completely stupid.

He wasn't sure if the light in the cave was even dimmer than before or if he was in an even worse shape than he had thought, but he _was_ sure that it didn't really matter. Fact was that he could hardly see what was going on around him, which, now that he thought about it, was probably quite a good thing. He had never been a great fan of the whole Put-a-hood-over-your-head-and-hope-the-orcs-don't-find-you theory, but sometimes it really was the best course of action.

Oh, wait. The orcs _had_ found him.

Ilúvatar save him, he thought, disgusted. He was rambling. Forcing himself to concentrate, Legolas narrowed his eyes and tried to bring his surroundings into sharper focus. His eyes stubbornly refused to co-operate, however, and it took him some time before he saw more than indistinct shapes. Just when he had begun to make headway and had just about decided that the flickering thing to his left had to be a torch or a new kind of shooting star, a new blob appeared in his line of vision.

This time, it took him only a few seconds to realise that it was a face, and he'd had just enough time to decide that it was a face he didn't want to see when a steely hand shot out and closed around what was left of his shirt, which wasn't much. Sharp nails dug into his skin, but that small pain faded into insignificance as his body was jerked upright.

Varda's domes above, but that hadn't been a good idea. Legolas wasn't quite sure what hurt the worst, his side or his shoulder or his head or his hand, but it all blended together into a cacophony of different pains so fierce and breathtaking that he had distinct trouble believing that it was even possible. That doubt didn't last long, and when the agony even increased and the edges of his vision grew soft and grey and very indistinct, Legolas knew that he was in bad shape indeed.

After having been shaken a few times, something that, unsurprisingly enough, didn't help the pain racing through him at all, the blurry face in front of him assembled itself into the facial features of one of the few people he knew he had hoped never to see again. He had a list with the names of people like him, actually, and as soon as he got his hands on a quill and figured out how to spell his name, Buzgókh's name would be joining all the others.

The orc's mouth moved, but he could hear no sounds at all, and Legolas found himself staring, transfixed, as pointy teeth appeared and disappeared between the cracked and pierced lips. There was an image in his head, an image of those teeth smeared with redness, and he automatically pushed it aside, shuddering with distaste and half-remembered horror. He might not really recall all the details about his situation right now, but he was rather convinced that it was safe to assume that he didn't want to remember this.

The orc in front of him frowned, the left corner of his mouth moving downward in a way that would have looked amusing under any other circumstances, and Legolas knew that he should care, knew that this was important to him, because every other time one of his captors had frowned at him he had ended up being slammed against a wall or beaten into a pulp or something far worse. But somehow he didn't have the strength to do anything but gasp for air as the pain and shortness of breath increased with the orc's fingers tightening on his shirt, and he inwardly shrugged, resigned. He hated to admit this even to himself, but he simply didn't have any energy left.

"…elf?"

There was that annoying, buzzing sound again, and only now Legolas realised that it was the orc speaking. If it had been up to him, he wouldn't have wanted to listen to anything his captor had to say, but considering how annoyed the other looked, it appeared as if he didn't have a choice in the matter.

"Hope you're listenin', elf," Buzgókh spoke up once more. He somehow managed to sound amazingly like one of Legolas' old tutors, the one who had tried to introduce him to the wonders of early Silvan love poetry and had failed spectacularly. "'Cause you've been sleepin' enough."

There was a cutting retort just waiting to be said – and, if Aragorn had been in this position, it would have been said, too – but Legolas was too confused and in too much pain to quite determine what it was. He opened his mouth to say something nevertheless – what he thought about Buzgókh's intelligence and general disposition should work just fine as well –, but nothing more than a croak came out. Knowing when he was beaten, Legolas decided that this was as scathing as he would get in the next few seconds and closed his mouth again.

The small sound had been enough for the orc, however, because he started to grin widely, a gap-toothed, gleeful smile that would have intimidated even most trolls.

"Now, ain't that something," he said, turning half-around to look at his comrades. "The pretty little elf's awake. 'Tleast one of them should be, right, boys?"

It took Legolas' addled brain several moments to process that sentence, the orcs' laughter causing his head to throb in rhythm with his heartbeat. All things considered, he managed to make sense of it relatively quickly, though, and as soon as the orc loosened his grip enough for him to speak, he tried again to make himself heard, this time with success.

"Where … is my … friend?"

Well, it hadn't sounded as fierce and commanding as he'd have liked, but Legolas really didn't think that anybody could have blamed him. The full severity of what was going on here had suddenly materialised, wrapped itself around his skull and started to squeeze, and all he could see was the last thing he had beheld before a blow had sent him into unconsciousness: Celylith's motionless figure lying on the floor of the cave, his breathing loud and laboured and so very audible over the blanket of terror-filled silence that had descended at the exact time hat Buzgókh had thrust that torch into his face.

Legolas shuddered openly; a reaction he couldn't have suppressed even if he'd tried. Celylith had always been stubborn, idiot that he was, and it had taken him long to lose consciousness, no matter how terrible the pain. Not long enough for their captors' tastes, obviously, and an eternity too long for Legolas.

"Ah, ain't that sweet?" the orcs' leader purred, and Legolas couldn't help but stare at him with wide, round eyes. He had never thought that he would use the words 'orc' and 'purr' in one sentence, but there was simply no better description for it. "He's worried about his friend. Should be worried about yerself, elf scum."

"Should have … a lot … things," he brought out, surprising himself and the orc with this rather poor attempt at making recognisable sounds.

"You're probably right about that." Buzgókh grinned, shaking him. It was a testament to his weakness that Legolas' head lolled from side to side. He couldn't quite suppress the automatic connexion his brain made between his current situation and that of a rat being shaken by a hunting dog. "Like what, huh?"

"Should have … walked right past … cave," Legolas answered as well as an elf slowly suffocating could.

Buzgókh stared at him for a second or two before he started laughing uproariously, and the detached part of Legolas' brain that was still active and was unsuccessfully trying to rouse him noted absently that Buzgókh was the most easily amused orc he had ever met.

"You really are funny," he said, looking as if Legolas should feel pleased or honoured about his comment. "Not as funny as before, though. Your friend ain't that funny anymore neither."

Legolas struggled against the grip he was held in with renewed energy, stabs of pain going through his wounded shoulder and side.  
"Where is he?"

"Ah, don't ya worry about him," the orc said, patting Legolas' head like a man would pet his favourite dog. "He was still alive the last time I saw him. Not too chatty, but alive. A bit singed, though."

Legolas gave him his best scathing look that would have singed the scales off a dragon. Well, actually it would have singed the scales off a dragon if his left eye hadn't been swollen shut. This way, it was slightly too lopsided to be fully effective.

"If he dies, I will kill you," he began, clinging to the agony throbbing through his body to anchor him and give him strength. "If he retains permanent injury, I will kill you. Actually, I think I will kill you no matter what." He grinned, actually enjoying the thunderous look on his captor's face. "It's the principle of the thing, you see?"

The orc didn't see, that much quickly became apparent. An iron-clad fist appeared out of nowhere, connecting with his jaw and slamming his head against the rock at his back, and for a few moments the world became very soft and quiet. Not for long enough, though, for before he could embrace the tempting darkness lurking at the edges of his awareness, Buzgókh's fist once again closed around his shirt, cutting off even more of his air. If the orc wasn't careful, Legolas thought dizzily, he would suffocate, right here, right now.

He wasn't even sure anymore if that would be such a bad thing.

"Go ahead and joke, _ilid_," the orcs' leader hissed, giving his comrades heated looks that caused them to draw closer, clearly anticipating some more entertainment before they moved out. "I'd enjoy it while I could if I was you."

"…not … a … joke," Legolas managed to bring out.

All he got for his troubles was another shake that threatened to shake his teeth loose and a blow to his wounded shoulder that would have nearly sent him into unconsciousness.

"As I said, enjoy it," Buzgókh said, a malicious light shining in his eyes as he leaned closer, stopping only when his lips were mere inches away from his captive's ear. "'Cause we're takin' you with us, and let me tell you one thing: Skagrosh doesn't play nearly as nice as us."

"I am not going to … tell you anything," Legolas said once the orc loosened his grip a bit. Buzgókh wasn't as stupid and coarse as he had thought, he noticed, his chest heaving with his effort to draw enough breath into his lungs. He knew exactly when to let go lest his captive lost consciousness.

"Oh, you're not gonna tell me nuthin'," the orc said with another smile that, in comparison, made the previous one look friendly and obliging. "You're gonna tell_ him_. He woulda liked one of the _tarks_, one of them pretty ones we nearly woulda caught a few days back, but I guess you'll do just fine, too."

For a moment, Legolas wasn't quite sure if he should feel offended or not, but then he pushed the thought to the side as unimportant. What he would do, however, if he ever got out of this, that was, was tell Aragorn that an orc had called him 'pretty'. Well, the orc in question had called him 'pretty', too, but that was something he would just conveniently forget.

The room around him grew once again dimmer and more indistinct, as did – thankfully! – the faces of the orcs, and Legolas found himself thrust back, into the hard rock wall. The impact robbed him of what little strength he still possessed, and he found himself sliding down the wall until he came to rest in what was probably a rather ignoble heap. His eyes didn't seem to be working all that well all of the sudden, but his ears still did, and so he didn't miss another voice speaking up, most likely that of one of Buzgókh's men. He also didn't miss the annoyed kick that impacted with his thigh.

"Still don't see why we couldn't have played with them a little longer," the voice groused. To Legolas it sounded like something a spoiled child would have said when told that no, he wasn't allowed to rip off the wings of a butterfly and set it on fire.

"Yeah," another orc agreed. "They're good sport, those two. We should burn out the other's second eye, see if he starts begging then."

"Nah, he wouldn't," the second voice retorted, sniggering. "Can't really talk when you look like that, can you?" Another kick made Legolas curl up slightly, no matter how much he wanted to defy his captors, and the amusement in the orc's voice thickened. "This one would beg for him, though. He would have earlier, too, if you hadn't hit him that hard."

"It wasn't my fault!" the other orc protested heatedly. This was clearly a point that had been debated before. "If you'd just…"

"Quiet!" Buzgókh bellowed, his loud voice only serving to increase the headache pounding in Legolas' skull. "Both of you!" It was quiet for a moment, but then the orcs' leader went on, "As I told you, we're takin' them with us 'cause they're our ticket out of the pits, you idiots!"

"But…" the first voice protested again before it was cut off and ended in a pained whine. There was a dull sound followed by a thud, and if Legolas hadn't been so busy trying not to pass out, he would have smiled. It was nice seeing – or rather hearing in this case – someone else get hit for a change.

"Now, do I have to get any clearer?" Buzgókh asked, voice deceivingly friendly. "We're days late since we got lost in the escape, so as it is, Skagrosh would have all of us killed if we turned up now. With the two of them, he might be busy with them and forget about us for a while. I will not have any of you damage them beyond repair, clear? Is that clear, _snaga_?!"

"It's not fair, that's what it is." That was the second voice again. Legolas couldn't help but agree wholeheartedly. Life wasn't fair, and that was a very sad fact. "Why does he get to have all the fun?"

"'Cause he's the boss, that's why," Buzgókh snapped, sounding more than a little annoyed. "And the next one to ask a bloody stupid question like that will find himself strung up by his entrails!"

There was nothing more than shuffling, muffled sounds, and Legolas was left pondering the very interesting – and, if he was perfectly honest, not very distressing – picture those words elicited. Maybe Buzgókh needed some help with that, he thought fuzzily. He should ask him…

He didn't get the chance to actually do it. Half a second before he had the chance to open his mouth, he was jerked upright, something that caused his head to spin around its own axis a few times. Thinking about it now, head lolling and thoughts more than a little scattered, he thought that that was probably not such a bad thing. Eru only knew what he might have said. Quite against his own will, his eyes slowly opened, something he regretted almost instantly as he saw the look of gleeful enjoyment on his captor's face.

"Now, elf scum," he began, grinning widely and in a way that awoke deep unease in Legolas' heart, "listen closely. We're leaving now. Cause any trouble at all, and we'll finish what we started with your little friend. I need only one of you to survive till we get to the others, and I never said it had to be him. Understood?"

Oh yes, Legolas understood only too well. He had either become terribly transparent and easy to read, or Buzgókh was a lot cleverer than he looked. That last part wouldn't exactly be hard, mind you, but fact was that the orc had quite keenly found his weak spot: There was no way in all of Arda that he would allow Celylith to be hurt even more if he had any way to prevent it.

Buzgókh didn't wait for an answer, clearly judging Legolas not to be entirely conscious of what was going on around him, an estimation that was not all that far from the truth, and Legolas found himself being dragged out of the small cave before he fully understood what was going on. A sharp jerk propelled him forward, but also awoke fiery pain in his burnt hand that made thinking or, Valar forbid, coordinated movement like walking completely impossible, and so the orcs dragged him down the corridor, something that did not really agree with his hurting shoulder and side.

It took them several nightmarish minutes to reach the cave's entrance, and they were still several yards away from it when one of the orcs – the one who had lamented the unfairness of life in general and superiors in particular, Legolas thought – slammed him against a wall, something that was beginning to happen to him so frequently that Legolas hardly thought it worthy of notice. The orc easily held him in place by pinning him to the stone wall with one hand, and if Legolas hadn't been so busy breathing and doing his best to fight off the black spots that were beginning to cover his vision, he would have been thoroughly disgusted at himself.

Pinned to a wall by an orc using only one hand. Oromë be praised that none of his old tutors could see him now or, Eru forbid, his father.

Breathing became slightly easier as the his heartbeat slowed down, and so Legolas was quite conscious and aware of his surroundings when another group of orcs arrived, shuffling down the corridor behind them amidst grunts and curses and thus bringing the total number of orcs back up to the original seven.

How wonderful, Legolas' slightly more sarcastic side provided. They were all back together again.

That he was indeed right about that quickly became apparent as two of the orcs stepped to the side, revealing the slumped figure of a fair-haired elf that Legolas recognised even in his current condition. Bright stabs of panic went through him when the other elf didn't move, but Legolas refused to even entertain the possibility that Celylith was dead. There was still the hope that someone would find them, that they would somehow both escape from this nightmarish trap they had walked into, and Legolas found himself clinging to it with all his strength. It was the only thing that could hold the almost overwhelming fear at bay.

Even while he was struggling against the hands of the orcs holding him, not really expecting it to work – which it didn't –, Legolas thanked any and all Valar that might be interested in their current situation (and, knowing his luck and their average behaviour, there were quite a lot of them) that Celylith was in fact unconscious. He couldn't see much of his friend's face, which was yet another thing he was thankful for, but he thought that it was a rather good guess that he wouldn't have been able to bear this with anything even remotely resembling stoicism had he been conscious.

Stoicism was overrated anyway, Legolas decided as his bound arms were twisted even higher up behind his back, making his wounded shoulder shriek in pain in a way that made him feel nauseous and light-headed. Especially when you didn't have the strength or energy to keep up the pretence.

"Ah," Buzgókh said, grinning from ear to ear. "Here's your friend, now, _ilid_. Looks a bit ... _unwell_, doesn't he?"

"Not as unwell," Legolas suppressed a cough, finding the hand that kept him pressed against the stone wall increasingly restrictive, "as you will look, orc, once I am..."

The hand tightened, moving up from his chest to his neck where it started to squeeze, and Legolas found his words being cut off. It rather destroyed the impact the menacing statement would have made, but he guessed he should have expected it. And even if he hadn't been choking right now, he rather doubted that the stereotypical "I will kill you, just you wait" threat he wanted to make would have been very intimidating all things considered.

"Still funny, I see," Buzgókh said, lazily taking a step forward and studying his captive with evilly glinting eyes. "All of your kind seem to be." He reached out with an ironclad hand and slowly traced Legolas' bruised jaw with a long, jagged fingernail. "It's a long walk back to the others. You should keep your tongue behind your teeth and get ready for it, 'cause we're not gonna carry your little friend here. _You_ are."

Legolas had far too little breath left to do anything but gasp for air, therefore preventing him from making his situation even worse by saying what was on his mind. Buzgókh took his silence for submission and grinned, patting the blond elf's face.

"That's the way, elf. This way you might actually survive another day or two."

Legolas, who could imagine nothing worse, briefly closed his eyes, suddenly desperate to block out what was quickly turning into the worst nightmare he had ever had. He was being dragged into the direction of the exit, casting a desperate look over his shoulder to see Celylith being hauled down the passageway after him, when the orc in front of him stopped from one moment to the next. Legolas' guards, who had been more interesting in twisting his arms as cruelly as possible and making sure their prisoner was uncomfortable, could not stop in time and ran straight into the dark creature, which resulted in a rather ungainly tangle. The impact knocked what little breath Legolas still possessed right out of him, and he needed some moments to raise his head and look at what the orcs had been staring at for some time now.

Legolas didn't even notice that his mouth dropped open, nor that he looked about as ridiculous as his orcish guards. Two dark-haired men had stepped into the cave, standing side by side and looking mildly surprised more than anything else. The silver brooches securing the long dark cloaks at their throats gleamed softly in the light that the one crackling torch cast, and a faint glimmer of metal could be seen at the hip of one of them as he shifted from foot to foot before the long cloak covered it again.

Legolas knew both of them, even though his addled brain needed some time to assign a name to the one who had just shifted restlessly. For a second he wondered if he had finally done what he had been threatening to do for the past quarter-hour or so and had passed out, but then he discarded that idea. Not even he could have come up with a hallucination quite this … ludicrous.

Just what in the name of Eru Ilúvatar, he thought, not really knowing if he should be terrified or elated, was that poor excuse for a ranger _thinking_?

Next to him, the orc holding him by his wounded shoulder cocked its head slightly to the side in obvious puzzlement, and the first man cleared his throat, the first sound or movement he had made since entering the cave.

"Oh," he said, a look of embarrassment dancing over his features. "We are sorry. We didn't know this cave was already occupied."

"Indeed," the second man said, giving the stupefied orcs and their two captives a quick smile. "Our mistake. Do forgive the interruption."

With a pair of nods and a swishing of cloaks, the two of them were gone. Even under more normal circumstances Legolas was sure that he wouldn't have been able to hide his astonishment. At least he didn't seem to be the only one; the orcs were as motionless as he, and it took Buzgókh quite a long time to get over his surprise and turn to his men, a mixture of rage and shock on his face.

"Get them, boys!"

Two orcs jumped into action, rushing down the corridor and disappearing outside. An argument broke out around him, with orcs shouting and yelling at each other, but Legolas wasn't paying them any attention. Sudden adrenaline pumped through his body, pushing even the excruciating pain in his hand to the side, and he forced himself to be calm and actually _think_. Buzgókh had silenced his men and was ordering them to move closer to the entrance, but Legolas hardly noticed that he was being dragged forward once more.

There must have been some guards outside, at least two, if not three. Buzgókh wasn't stupid, at least not for an orc, and he would have known better than to leave himself unprotected, especially considering that two elves had just appeared out of nowhere a few hours earlier. That the two rangers had just waltzed into the cave and out again was hardly a coincidence, especially considering who they had been, and _that_ they had waltzed in at all could only mean that the guards were either incredibly careless or dead. Which, of course, meant that this was Aragorn's way of keeping to the old adage of Divide and Conquer, and that in return meant that…

…that he should probably duck.

No sooner than the thought had materialised in his mind a loud, crashing sound could be heard that rather sounded like someone or something heavily armoured falling down a rocky slope. It coincided with barely visible, stealthy shadows that quickly ghosted across the opening that was the cave's entrance, and even while Legolas was still desperately trying to get his sluggish body to co-operate the orc standing closest to the entrance suddenly stumbled backwards. It managed to keep upright for a few moments before it collapsed, and only when it fell over Legolas could see a dark, simply carved knife hilt that stuck out of its back.

Legolas was still staring at it and the very familiar nick in the hilt when the orc holding him upright grunted and went down as well, and suddenly he was falling for what seemed like an extraordinary long amount of time. He hit the ground hard, unable to break his fall with his hands bound behind him. The back of his head connected with something hard that was either the floor of the cave or some piece of the orc's armour, and for a few moments he tethered on the brink of unconsciousness. Five minutes ago, he would have been glad about the opportunity to lose consciousness, but now he fought the encroaching darkness with everything he had. He would be damned if he fainted now; he had to help the rangers!

As it turned out, he wasn't about to help anybody, because he could do nothing but grit his teeth in agony as someone took hold of his bound arms and jerked him to his feet. The sudden movement was too much for his weakened body, and so he only surfaced from the pool of pain he had been drowning him when his head was jerked back and something cold and sharp was placed at his throat.

The scenery had changed considerably, he saw. One, there was quite a bit of black blood covering the rock walls and floor and, on second glance, him, too. Two, two more bodies lay on the ground, one, the one half-draped over Celylith's motionless form, with a knife sticking out of his neck and the other with a long arrow in his eye. Three, Buzgókh was holding him upright with an arm wrapped around his chest from behind, his other hand holding a knife against his throat – a position that was becoming disgustingly familiar. And four, there was a number of very angry-looking, dark-haired men standing at both sides of the entrance, pointing a number of rather lethal weapons their way.

A stand-off, Legolas concluded tiredly. He hated stand-offs.

He was hoisted up farther, something that would have resulted in him standing on his toes if there hadn't been an immovable arm holding him in place, and the cold, sharp object against his neck that just had to be a knife dug further into his skin, causing him to crane his neck to relieve the pressure. Dark spots once again began to gather at the edges of his vision as the steely arm wrapped around his chest and the way his head was twisted back impeded his ability to draw breath, and Legolas had to use almost all his strength just to remain conscious.

The young, dark-haired man to the right of the entrance scowled at that, the sword that he held at the ready quivering slightly, mirroring his agitation. He was one of the only rangers not pointing a loaded bow at the orc behind him, and Legolas even half-knew the reason for that, something that was connected to imagines flashing through his mind, images of blood and the man's pale, still face. A thunderous expression laid itself more firmly over the other's features, and Legolas would have smiled if it wouldn't have been quite inappropriate. He would have to tell Estel one day how much like Lord Elrond he looked when he did that.

"Let him go, orc."

Behind him, Legolas could feel Buzgókh huff in either incredulity or annoyance.  
"Now, why'd I do that, _tark_?"

Aragorn's eyes narrowed and he grimaced, his eyes flickering from Celylith's figure to Legolas and back to the orc, who was the only orc still standing on its feet.  
"Because we will kill you if you don't."

This time, Buzgókh laughed, once again proving Legolas' theory about him being more easily amused than most of his kind.  
"You'll kill me anyway. You think I'm an idiot?"

"In every conceivable way," another ranger to Aragorn's left confirmed quietly. Legolas, who knew that he should know him, needed embarrassingly long to convince his uncooperative brain to provide him with a name: Haldar. It was Haldar, which was quite a logical answer, now that he thought about it. Aragorn was here, so Haldar would be, too. "You're surrounded, orc, and your companions are dead. You will not leave this cave alive unless you surrender to us."

"I ain't gonna leave it no matter what," Buzgókh summed up his situation quite appropriately. Legolas would have nodded if there hadn't been a knife digging into his neck. That was exactly the kind of solution to this problem for which he had been hoping for quite some time now. "But the last thing I'll do is make sure that your little friend here doesn't, neither."

Aragorn, who had been raised by Noldorin Elves and was therefore as good at reading between the lines as any of the Firstborn, quickly glanced at Celylith before silver-grey eyes returned to Buzgókh.  
"If you have killed him, I swear to you by Elbereth Gilthoniel herself that…"

"Oh, he isn't dead," Buzgókh said, the malicious smile that Legolas couldn't see clearly audible in his voice. "He'll just wish he was, _if_ he ever wakes up."

"You really shouldn't have done that." Aragorn's voice was calm and collected, but Legolas had no trouble hearing the raw fury in it. "It will be the last mistake you ever made, _orch_."

Legolas knew that the orc winced at the Elvish word since his hand jerked slightly and the sharp metal dug into his skin, and he had to crane his neck even further, now barely being able to see Aragorn and the others.

"Is that so, little ranger?" Buzgókh asked, malice lacing his every word. "You should worry about yerself, not about this piece of elf scum here. If that blond worm hadn't just appeared outta nowhere, you'd be screamin' in our caves now." Legolas could very well imagine the leering grin that would be on the orc's face by now. "Skagrosh ain't gonna stop till he gets what he wants, and he wants ya, boy."

"What you and your kind want does not concern me, orc," Aragorn said coolly. His eyes flickered over to meet Legolas', but if there was a message in the grey depths, Legolas was too close to losing consciousness to see it. "Make your choice now. Release our friends, or…"

"Or what, ranger?" the orc asked, positively spitting out the words. "You're gonna kill me with that tickler of yours?"

"He doesn't have to," another ranger said, pulling back the string of his bow another half inch or so. It was that other one, Legolas thought fuzzily, the one Celylith got along with. He tried to remember his name for a second or two before he gave up. "Do you think you're faster than our arrows, orc? Personally, I wouldn't bet any money on your chances."

"Do _you_ think you can hit me with those arrows of yours before I slit his throat?" Buzgókh retorted spitefully and, unfortunately, not entirely inaccurately.

It was quiet for a second, the fury on the rangers' faces only intensifying, before a calm voice broke the silence.

"He probably cannot. But I can."

There was a sudden, swishing sound followed by the unmistakable thud of an arrow impacting with flesh, and Legolas had just enough presence of mind left to wrench his head away as the orc's hold slackened and allow himself to fall to the side, out of his captor's grasp.

As he lay on the ground, Legolas laboriously turned his head to the side, and while the dark shapes that had to be Aragorn's men rushed past him, intent on making sure that the orcs were indeed dead and that there were no more threats lurking in the dark corners of the passageways, his eyes came to rest on a tall, dark-haired figure that was striding into the cave, his cloaked form blocking out the faint light of moon and stars. He held a beautifully carved bow in his hand, and judging by the look of absolute fury on his face, he had barely even stopped his rushed walk to fire the arrow.

Even though Legolas' eyes weren't exactly what he would call reliable at the moment, he had no trouble identifying him, and he couldn't help but smile.

He would have to apologise for all the times he had insulted the twins' archery skills.

Then there were hands on his arms, turning him over, and agony shot through him as someone cut his bonds. His vision blacked out for a moment or two, and when he managed to open his eyes again, he could see in the anxious faces that surrounded him that he hadn't managed to keep in that scream of pain.

"…golas?" Sound finally decided to catch up with the rest of him. "Legolas, can you hear me?"

This was just the kind of question Legolas would expect from Aragorn in full mother-hen mode, but he was far too relieved to see his friend to react with his customary long-suffering annoyance.

"Celylith?" he asked, surprised himself that the name came out reasonably understandable.

"He's here," Aragorn said with a quick smile, hands skimming over the elf's upper body in search for other injuries than the painfully obvious ones. "We will take care of him. We will take care of you. Everything will be all right."

Aragorn's questing fingers reached his right hand, setting off another wave of pain, and as the darkness did what it had been threatening to do for the past few minutes and finally engulfed him, Legolas thought that, now, it just might be.

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_dúnadan (Sindarin) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
ilid (Black Speech) - •elf (-man), •elves  
tark (pl.: tarks) (B.S.) - Man of Gondor/of Númenórean heritage  
snaga (B.S.) - 'slave', used of the lesser breeds of orcs  
orch (S.) - orc, goblin _

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All right, all right, you see? They're saved. What d'you mean, they're not in the best of shapes? Come on, they're still alive and in one piece ... kind of ... more or less ... if you see it in a certain way... •g• Anyway, next chapter ... what do we have next chapter? Oh yes, we find out what happened to the twins, who, together with Aragorn, have some healing to do, Captain Daervagor finds out about several things, Haldar is entirely unamused, we find out how Legolas and Celylith are doing, and - surprise, I know! - some more rangers get into trouble. Who? Well, let's put it this way: Should anything happen to one member of said party, the dear captain (and Aragorn) would make everyone's lives miserable. For a few decades at least. What? •innocent look• I'm a very fair person - I torture everyone equally. •g• On another note: Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays! See you next year! •hugs readers•**

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**Additional A/N:**

**My apologies to kyLaa, Anony Mousse, A Random Person, Tatsumaki-sama and Chelsie for not including them in my big group-review-replies email. I need a valid email address either on your profile page or somewhere in your anonymous review (and remember, if you don't put extra spaces between the various parts of the email address, FF-net will eat it). I am very sorry for any inconvenience this might cause you!**


	21. The Coming of Dawn

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**I'm late. I know, I know, don't remind me. I don't think I'm really in the mood for a long A/N right now. Suffice to say that I'm sorry, that it will most likely happen again, and that I am at least now finally preparing for my finals. I'd thought it would never happen. I'll probably start taking them in April, but that's another matter entirely.**

**Oh, and I'll also be gone for most of March. No, let me rephrase that: I'll be gone for the whole of March. I'll be in Rome on an archaeological dig, which is great, but I also rather doubt that there will be internet access. I'll be online sporadically to check my emails, I guess, but I won't be back before April 1st. If everything goes according to plan - stop laughing back there - I should be able to update before I leave, because, hey, two months is too much, even for me.**

**So, here's the next (monstrously long) bit. I have stopped trying to get my characters to shut up and now simply cry myself to sleep every night •g•. There's not a lot of Legolas in it (he's kind of busy being unconscious at the moment), but he's still there, more or less. Anyway, we find out just what my alter ego did to Legolas and Celylith, Aragorn therefore does something his brothers are not happy about (see A/N II for that), Elladan and Daervagor have a little discussion, and Halbarad ... well. Let's just say that he isn't having much fun at the moment. •evil grin•**

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Chapter 21

Time seemed to speed up again to what passed as normal, for the first time since Lhanton and he had walked into the cave, and Aragorn felt how a wave of dizziness washed over him that would have caused him to lose his footing if he hadn't already been kneeling. Then there was a hand on his shoulder, placed there slowly and with care and clearly in a way designed to alarm him as little as possible, and Aragorn shook his head. Utilizing the fierce force of will he had needed so often in his life – and mostly in situations like this one –, he pushed everything, every fear, every worry and even the complaints of his body to the side and concentrated on what mattered right here and now.

Raising his head seemed as good a place to start as any.

"Yes?"

The polite question sounded so completely and wholly inappropriate that he would have started laughing if he hadn't just decided that irrational displays of merriment were not conducive to this situation. Lhanton, who stood in front of him and who slowly withdrew his hand now, didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he ignored it.

"What do you need?" the other ranger asked simply.

For a moment, Aragorn could only stare at him, bright fear still pulsing inside of him. What did he need – what kind of question was that?

Without saying anything, Aragorn looked down at the still body of his best friend, horror once again rising inside of him. It was hard to say where one injury ended and the next began; there was so much blood and dirt covering him that they all seemed to blend into one another. Legolas had lost consciousness in the middle of his first frantic examination – and how he thanked the Valar for that! –, but from what he had been able to discover, there were at least two large injuries, one easily visible dislocated and twisted shoulder and a large gash in his left side. Add to that a from the looks of it rather serious head injury, a severely burnt right hand and more bruises, cuts and contusions than he could count…

Eru, the young man thought to himself, forcing himself to remain calm. Legolas needed a lot of things, among them to be in the care of a master healer who had access to as many healing herbs as he could get his hands on.

But what _he_ needed, what he wanted, was, if he was perfectly and brutally frank with himself, his father to come and make this all better, as Elrond had done so many times when he had been a child.

"Find me a room," he finally said, his head reeling, more in order to get rid of the other ranger so that he could actually _think_. "I need some space, somewhere where I can take a look at them that isn't soaked with orc blood."

Even a person completely unskilled in medical matters could see that a blood-soaked environment might not exactly been conducive to anyone's health – especially if said environment was decorated with stiffening bodies –, and fuelled by the _look_ Aragorn gave him when he hesitated for a moment, Lhanton only nodded and hurried off. For a moment, Aragorn was so relieved that he was alone that he paused. Then, however, reality reasserted itself and a by now very well-known list scrolled down in front of his eyes.

He would need water … and _athelas_,_harucholor_, too, he would think … that new salve his father had concocted a while back, the one with marigold … light, yes, that would be a good idea, too, he would have to get a few extra torches…

"_Dam Morgoth!"_

The two words were hissed more than spoken, and if Aragorn hadn't been so busy trying to decide where to touch the broken body of his friend without causing him any additional pain, he would have turned around or said something. This way, however, he merely spared his brother a fleeting glance, ensuring that at least he was uninjured and – relatively speaking – well, before he returned his attention to Legolas' still body.

"What in the name of Eru Ilúvatar_happened_, Estel?" Elladan asked, closing the distance between them with long, purposeful strides. Even a person who didn't know him well – or at all – wouldn't have missed the fear flickering over his face. "We were only gone for half a day!"

"I have no idea,_muindor_," Aragorn answered without turning his head. "Orcs, obviously. I know nothing more." Elladan was about to kneel down next to him, but he shook his head, inwardly marvelling at the way he managed to keep his hands steady. "Take care of Celylith," he said. "I can deal with … this."

He paused, finding that he couldn't decide on a word that precisely – or even imprecisely – described what 'this' was. Catastrophe? Disaster? Tragedy? It was hard to settle on only one word.

"Where is Elrohir?" he finally asked, when he could bear the silence no longer.

"Not going to be climbing up here," Elladan answered, already heading over to where Tarcil was hovering over the wounded elf, clearly unsure of what he should be doing. As soon as the elf drew closer he looked up, and a look of such relief spread over his pale face that Aragorn would almost have smiled. Then he remembered just why the other ranger would be so relieved that a healer was joining him and the faint inclination died a very early death. "He twisted his ankle."

That did tear Aragorn's attention away from Legolas' clearly dislocated shoulder for half a second.  
"Twisted his ankle? How? Is he all right?"

"He is fine. He just won't be climbing up any hillsides in the near future," Elladan said quickly, obviously unwilling to add to his human brother's worries. With a nod at Tarcil he knelt down next to the silver-haired elf. His naturally pale face turned positively white, and he let out a curse that made the earlier one look very, very tame in comparison. "Then again, maybe he will after all."

Aragorn, who had been peeling back the remains of Legolas' shirt to reveal the wound to his side, froze in mid-motion and cast his brother a look that was just one step away from panicked.  
"How is he?"

"Not good." If Elladan's voice was anything to go by, 'Not good' was a crass understatement. "I … I will need help with this."

That certainly got the young ranger's attention. He turned his head, silver-grey eyes searching for and finding his brother's fear-darkened eyes.

"What is it?"

A single look at Aragorn's face seemed to tell the twin that lying or subterfuge were not an option – as inviting as they might have looked –, and so Elladan only shrugged and turned back to his patient.

"They … burned him, it would seem." His voice was flat and carefully emotionless, and he shifted slightly to the right, blocking Aragorn's sight of the wood-elf, in a movement that was far too nonchalant to be anything of the kind. "I will need Elrohir's help with this, Estel. Or…"

Elladan broke off, but Aragorn knew very well what his brother would have liked to say. 'Or _ada's_, or Gaerîn's … or yours.' Elrond wasn't here and neither was Gaerîn, and if he went to help his brother then who would look after Legolas?

"I will fetch him for you, my lord," a new voice announced. "He is waiting below?"

Aragorn looked up, and had to swipe a suddenly unsteady hand over his eyes to ensure that they weren't playing any tricks on him – given what he was forcing them to look at right now, he wouldn't have been overly surprised. He left a bloody smear on his forehead that he wouldn't notice until after the sun had risen once more, but the person standing in front of him didn't change, nor did he disappear in a small puff of smoke as he had half-expected him to.

Amlaith, he thought, wanted to _help_ them. Amlaith wanted to help _them_. Valar, what kind of night this was turning out to be.

Elladan hesitated only for the briefest of seconds before he nodded at the ranger, gratitude mingling with the barely suppressed fear visible in every plane and angle of his face.  
"Yes, he should be, most likely driving your guards mad. Thank you, Master Ranger. Please tell him to make haste, and to bring whatever healing equipment he can find."

Amlaith nodded.  
"I will, my lord. Your brother will be here in a few minutes."

He turned around and was gone, deftly avoiding the dead orcs lying on the ground. Aragorn barely watched him go, far too busy keeping in the panic bubbling inside of him. Looking at it objectively, he rather felt like a cauldron close to brimming over. A few feet behind him, he heard Elladan mumble something under his breath, something that sounded like a cross between a curse and a prayer, and he forced his scattered thoughts back into order.

The side looked bad, he thought as calmly as he could and with his fingers hovering an inch or two from the injury. It looked as if Legolas had contracted that while he had tumbled off the path – if he had indeed tumbled off the path and it hadn't been some sort of metaphorical representation of danger, which wouldn't have surprised him a lot considering the things his mind liked to throw at him –, and ... was that a _branch _sticking out of the injury? If Aragorn hadn't been so worried, he would have shaken his head in disbelief. This was just so _typical_.

Still, the wound had stopped bleeding, and even though it was dirty, it should be not too much trouble to treat it. He would most likely spend half this night digging out pebbles, wood and dirt, but it shouldn't bother either of them unduly, especially considering their sets of standards. The same went for the bruises and cuts and even Legolas' head wound, which had apparently – in the way these things worked – bled profusely but which didn't seem to have damaged that overly hard wood-elven head of his. Then again, there was a first time for everything and...

With an unwilling shake of his head, Aragorn clamped down on the mixture of panic and fear inside of him. No, what he was worried about was the dislocated shoulder. He didn't know how long Legolas and Celylith had been in the orcs' hands – how long the orcs had been tormenting them –, but it was probably safe to assume that it had been at least eight hours, if not more. Setting the shoulder would be agony after such a long dislocation, and it might very well worsen the injury significantly. The muscles would have locked down by now, and he would most likely need help manipulating the joint.

What made him frantic, however, was the elf's hand. He had only grazed Legolas' hand, hadn't even really touched it, and the elf had lost consciousness. Worse than that, he had _screamed_.

Legolas never screamed. Well, actually, that wasn't entirely correct. But he still could count the occasions on which he had heard his friend actually do more than hiss in pain on the fingers of one hand alone. Valar, he could have counted the occasions on the fingers of one hand even if he'd had some sort of terrible, disfiguring accident.

There was nothing he could do right now, not until Lhanton had found them some sort of room where they could care for the two wood-elves, he finally concluded tiredly. The worst thing was that he was almost glad about it. He had seen and treated far worse wounds in his short life, but this was _Legolas_ he was talking about. He was his friend, his best friend, and if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was treating those he loved and cared about. Treating was almost always synonymous with hurting, and he was very, very sure that Legolas had been hurt enough already tonight. And besides, even though he was relatively confident that he would be able to take care of the injuries to the elf's chest, there was still his hand to consider, the hand that was so grievously burned that he had lost consciousness when he had very fleetingly touched it.

It was his right hand, too, and Valar knew if it would heal and what if it didn't and…

"I said, a distraction!" a voice announced behind him, and Aragorn quite gladly turned towards the depths of the cave to locate the speaker. It was, unsurprisingly enough, Haldar, who looked as if he wasn't entirely sure if he ought to strangle or hug him. "A distraction, Estel! Not a suicide attempt!"

If the situation hadn't been so dire, Aragorn would have smiled. He ought to tell the other ranger that he could sound quite a lot like Elladan from time to time. The fact seemed to be lost both on the older man and on his oldest brother, who was right now far too busy bandaging what looked like a sluggishly bleeding wound on Celylith's thigh to care much for who yelled what at whom.

"It wasn't a suicide attempt," Aragorn said, making an attempt to be the Voice of Reason. That seemed to have been Legolas' job lately, and the realisation was accompanied by a pang of worry and barely-concealed panic that was so bright and acute that it actually hurt. "You said 'I will take care of the guards, you create a distraction and see if you can't lure out a few of them.' We did that."

"Of course you did!" Haldar exclaimed, waving the torch he held in a way that made Aragorn feel slightly nauseous. "You also nearly got yourselves shot! How did you know that they wouldn't just put a pair of arrows through your heads? Worse, they could have overwhelmed you as soon as you set foot inside the cave, and we would have had to deal with four hostages instead of two!"

"It worked, did it not?" Aragorn retorted absently, noticing that he could see the wooden splinters sticking out of Legolas' wound much better now that the Haldar was waving the torch around. "Lhanton and I decided that it was worth the risk."

"Lhanton," Haldar said scathingly, "is a reckless idiot, a fact I have been aware of ever since he joined us three very, _very_ long years ago." His anger at Aragorn seemed to evaporate as soon as he laid eyes on the two unmoving elves, even though he clearly tried to hold on to it, and he sighed audibly. "How are they?"

Aragorn didn't answer immediately, both because he didn't really know how he should answer that question and because he wasn't sure how someone could even ask that kind of question when faced with a situation like this one.

"Not good," he finally said, something that was painfully obvious. "I … Legolas, he…" he trailed off and took a deep breath, shaking his head. "I think he will be … all right, but his hand … I don't know if … and Celylith…"

He fell silent, inwardly asking himself just what had happened to his ability to string coherent sentences together. Thinking about it now, he rather suspected that it had tumbled over the edge of that path at the same time Legolas had. And it had apparently had a far worse landing than his friend.

"Is there anything I can do?" Haldar asked, taking a step closer to him.

"I … no." Aragorn shook his head, absently brushing a strand of blood-crusted, dirty hair out of Legolas' closed eyes. The unfamiliar sight unsettled him, whispering of injury and death, and he had to force himself to look away. "No, there is nothing anyone can do but wait. Neither of them is stable enough to be moved right now." He looked up for a moment and smiled. "The captain will have to wait for a while longer yet to kill us."

Haldar did not smile back.  
"I could try to find you some sort of room so you could…"

"Already taken care of, sir," Lhanton announced to their left, hastening down the dark tunnel that led deeper into the cave. "There is a small cave branching off from the main tunnel. I had Tarcil and Eldacar light as many torches as they could find. I don't think you will find a cleaner or better lit place anywhere close-by, Estel."

"Good," Elladan said, for the first time looking up from Celylith's far too still body. "We don't have any time to waste. More important, _they_ do not. Amlaith just went to find my brother; he will have to be notified where we are as soon as he gets here. It is imperative that he reaches us quickly."

"I will inform them as soon as they arrive, my lord," one of the rangers standing nearby assured the elf, nodding solemnly. He hadn't been listening to them, of course, because rangers didn't do such things, but everybody knew how sounds could float through the air for many miles, didn't they? "I will take him to you immediately."

Elladan gave the man a quick, searching look that would have frightened most mortals, but which the ranger simply endured with a sense of long-suffering patience. Finally, the dark-haired elf nodded, apparently satisfied with what he had seen.

"Very well. Master Ranger," he said, turning to look at Lhanton, "lead the way."

Lhanton nodded and turned around, hurrying back the way he had come. With a single, fluid movement, Elladan had picked up Celylith and followed him, not even taking the time to spare Aragorn or the rest of the onlookers a single glance. Aragorn felt how his worry increased even more. If Elladan was this single-minded and hadn't even tried hounding him about his state of health or the fact that Legolas and he were reckless idiots that must have advertised somewhere that they_wanted_ to be maimed, stabbed and hit over the head, he must be very, very worried indeed.

And anything that made Elladan, who was the very ideal of an unshakable older brother, worry like this, made him positively frantic.

Biting down on his lower lip, Aragorn sat back on his haunches, preparing to lift Legolas to follow his elven brother. Haldar, who had been waiting patiently next to him, gave a strange sound that was somewhere between annoyance, worry and incredulity, and knelt down next to him, gently but firmly pushing him to the side. Aragorn was sure that, if there hadn't been a handful of rangers watching them, the older man would have scoffed and told him that he was a moron. Then again, one never knew with Haldar.

"I will carry him, Estel," Haldar said in a tone of voice that any normal man – meaning anybody who hadn't grown up in Rivendell and as a witness to Erestor's and Glorfindel's 'differences of opinion' – would have found intimidating. "You are still not well, and your stitches have not yet come out. The last thing we need right now is you ripping them out."

Aragorn searched for a reason why the other's reasoning was unsound, and, having come up with nothing and feeling far too exhausted and weary, finally settled for staring evilly at the older man. He had grown up as the twins' brother, after all, who didn't really believe in things like 'losing gracefully'.

"There are two healers present," he said, still centring the _look_ in all its glory on the back of Haldar's head. The fact that the other man couldn't see it diminished his enjoyment a little, but not much. "Three, if you count me as well. I believe that I would survive."

"Quite assuredly," Haldar agreed, standing up and waiting for a moment until he could adjust for Legolas' weight. "No doubt about it at all."

The elf hung slackly in his arms, his limbs dangling loosely and the lashes of his closed eyes dark against his white skin, and Aragorn had to close his eyes for a second against the combination of _Legolas_ and _slack_ and _closed eyes_.

"But since Lord Elrond's sons are busy at the moment, you would have to try and put stitches into your own side. One-handed," Haldar went on, before he turned and walked down the dark tunnel. "And that would be awkward."

Aragorn stared after him for a second or two, fighting the irrational urge to either hit the older man or start laughing hysterically. Somehow, he thought as he – after a menacing glower directed at the far too even-faced rangers around him – followed Haldar, he had liked the other man better when he had still looked at him open-mouthed with that slightly worrisome touch of awe in his eyes.

The cave was brightly lit and devoid of any and all orc blood, Aragorn saw as he entered it a moment later, and thankfully also devoid of elf blood. Elladan had already deposited Celylith on one of the makeshift bedrolls – really nothing more than two hurriedly laid-out cloaks each – and was right now taking one of the five burning torches and driving it into a crack close to the elf's motionless form with an almost angry movement. Elladan had moved away from his patient, and for the first time Aragorn could see Celylith's face clearly.

He hadn't thought that his heart could sink even further, but he had quite clearly been wrong. Right now, it felt as if it had come to a stop somewhere close to his shins.

"_A elenath Elbereth_," he whispered, unable to catch his voice.

He had seen burns before. He had been there when one of the junior chefs had poured half a pot of hot oil over his leg. He had been there when the smith had got caught in a minor fire, had thought it a good idea to try and peel his shirt away from his wound and had taken off most of his skin with it. He had most definitely been there when some madman in Lake-town had mistaken him for his next dinner and had tried to boil him like a chicken. So yes, he had always thought he had a rather good understanding of how terrible burns could look and feel, but this … this was different.

This was a hundred times worse.

He was spared from having to say anything by the (rather hobbling) arrival of Elrohir, which was heralded by a string of curses spewed forth in rapid Quenya. Aragorn frowned. Elrohir was one of the only people he knew who could make such a beautiful language as Quenya sound dark and vicious. Behind him, there walked a ranger carrying a earthenware bowl filled with hot, steaming water, who, after depositing the bowl on the floor, gave the elven twin next to him only the briefest look before turning around and making a tactical retreat.

"What happened?" Elrohir echoed his brother's earlier sentiments when he had calmed down sufficiently. "Why did someone slaughter half an orc horde in here? Not that I object in general, mind you, but…" He fell silent as he came limping into the small cave, fear- and worry-darkened eyes sweeping over his surroundings. "Oh, Valar."

He stopped in mid-motion, staring at the two still wood-elves with wide eyes. Aragorn could almost watch as his brother made the obvious connexions, and steeled himself for what he knew was to come.

Elrohir did not disappoint.  
"Are you all right, Estel?" he asked, whirling around. Only the very obvious pain in his left foot stopped him from rushing to his human brother's side. "Don't tell me, you have some sort of terrible wound that just happens to be hidden by that cloak of yours."

"I am fine, Elrohir," Aragorn said with as much patience as he could muster.

"No, you are not." Elrohir shook his head firmly, but limped over to his twin's side after giving the young man a last, suspicious look. "You never are when Legolas is not. The two of you have come up with a blood pact or some other sort of contract stipulating that you only can get injured together, haven't you?"

"Yes, Elrohir," Aragorn said in the same tone of voice. "We made a blood pact at full moon and sacrificed a virgin elf maiden to the demons of the depths. However did you know?"

"I am your brother," Elrohir merely said, painfully lowering himself to kneel next to his twin. "Your older brother. I have to know these things." The teasing smile on his lips wobbled and died in the instance in which he took a closer look at the injured elf in front of him, and he cursed again. "What happened, _gwanur_?"

"I haven't got the slightest idea, Elrohir," Elladan said, his voice pressed. "And neither does anybody else, it appears. Please tell me that you brought some of _ada's_ new salve."

"And some more herbs," Aragorn added, not looking up from where he was cutting the remains of his friend's clothes off him. "I don't think that we will be able to make do with what we have."

"I did," Elrohir assured them, only to shake his head in dismay. "Eru, but this is bad."

"We know that, Elrohir," Elladan said impatiently. "Concentrate, brother. I need your help." Elrohir nodded, the momentary anger that had clouded his face just as quickly disappearing, and Elladan added, "How does Legolas fare, Estel?"

"I am worried about his hand," Aragorn said, deciding that a half-truth was better than hysterical laughter by far. "The rest should heal without too much trouble … could someone shift one of the torches closer to his side, please?"

Lhanton complied almost immediately, worry easily visible on his face, but Aragorn did not notice. For long minutes he was fully occupied with digging the splinters out of Legolas side before he cleaned and bandaged the wound. After that came Legolas' head, and Aragorn once again got the chance to appreciate just how hard his friend's head really was. The wound to the side of the elf's head was long and ragged, but it didn't look too deep and didn't seem to be infected. While he bandaged the wound, Aragorn resolved to never again berate his friend about his thick skull. There was a ring of dark bruises circling Legolas' neck, looking like some sort of macabre necklace, and Aragorn once again felt that terrible fury well up inside of him. Someone had quite earnestly tried to strangle his friend. Legolas was breathing normally, however, so the abuse had not damaged his throat as he had feared at first.

After that was over and done with, he had Haldar and Lhanton hold the elf down while he set his shoulder, which slid back into position with an accompanying, dry cracking sound that sent shivers down Aragorn's spine. Even though the two rangers did their best to hold the convulsing elven prince down, biting back grimaces of guilty regret at his sudden scream of pain, he still almost bucked them off, elven strength once again coming to the fore. Aragorn forced himself not to listen to his friend's sounds of pain and closed his eyes while he ran his fingers over the inflamed joint, wincing inwardly at the hard, knotted muscles he encountered and knowing that at least some of the ligaments must have torn in the whole process. Legolas wouldn't be using that arm for quite some time, that much was certain.

Which, of course, brought him back to the thing he had been trying to avoid.

He carefully kept his mind blank of anything else while he strapped Legolas' arm to his chest. It was somewhat haphazardly done since he was fast running out of long bandages, but it would stabilise the limb until they got back to the camp. That was all he wanted, actually. Get back to the camp, get Legolas and Celylith settled and on the road to recovery, and then sleep for a week.

There was nothing for it. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn gently took Legolas' hand between his own, doing his best not to wince at the sight. Most of the skin was a dark, angry red, with patches where the skin was almost black and looked flaky, like a coat of old paint that was slowly peeling off. Boils had already formed, covering most of the burnt, reddened skin, but those were not the areas that worried Aragorn. It was the black ones where the flames had bitten deeply into the skin, destroying the muscle underneath.

In any other kind of place, this kind of injury would have been bad. But this … this was worse. There was much less muscle protecting the bones and tendons of the fingers, and if the flames had reached as deeply as it seemed then … then Legolas would never use this hand to do anything delicate ever again, elven healing abilities or not.

Aragorn sat back on his haunches, the wounded elf's hand still between his own. He suddenly felt very calm and collected, much as he usually did just before a battle, and he absently asked himself if there was such a beg difference between a battle and their current situation. Right now, however, he would have preferred a pack of rabid wargs. Them, at least, he would have been allowed to slaughter. He somehow thought that it might be frowned upon if he slaughtered one of his patients.

He turned to his brothers, hoping very much that he wouldn't see what he dreaded. He wasn't so lucky, of course. He would most likely have fainted from sheer shock if some Vala had finally decided to show them some favour.

Celylith's face looked, if anything, even worse than the other elf's hand. It seemed that he had managed to turn his head away just before it happened, so that most of the burns covered his left cheek and temple. His eye seemed to have been protected somewhat, but the lid was covered with large, angry-looking boils. And the rest … Elbereth, he sighed inwardly, the rest.

If a man had contracted this kind of injury, he might have already been dead. He would almost certainly have lost his eye, if he had survived in the first place, and the scarring would have been extensive and terrible. He would never again have smiled, or frowned, or felt it had someone touched his cheek.

That, more than anything else, was what made the decision for him. He slowly breathed out, wishing that his nervousness could leave him as easily as that, and looked at Haldar.

"Could you please make sure that the men are ready to leave in an hour?" he asked, as if Haldar hadn't already done that long ago. "We should be ready by then, I hope. It would be unwise to keep the captain waiting for longer than absolutely necessary."

"'Unwise' is a friendly term." Haldar frowned, either at the thought of having to confront his superior or at the admittedly rather grisly sight in front of him. "Are you sure, Estel?"

"Very sure," Aragorn replied with a small nod, his eyes flickering the tiniest fraction of a second to Lhanton and back again. "You have done all you could. Now it's our turn."

Haldar was an experienced enough man to read between the lines when hit over the head with a clue. He gave Aragorn a long, hard look, clearly trying to discover if the younger man was planning something reckless and coming to the decision that yes, it was most likely. He then turned to give Elrohir a similar stare which fairly screamed "Do something, he's _your_ brother" before he gave Aragorn a quick nod.

"Very well, then. Good luck. Lhanton," he said, turning and jerking his head at the entranced of the cave, "Let us go."

Lhanton didn't seem too amenable to that idea, grey eyes darting from Legolas to Celylith to Aragorn. He, Aragorn thought almost darkly, was clearly not as good at realising when he was being thrown out.

"But..." he began. "Are you sure that…?"

"Yes, Lhanton," Haldar said firmly, took him by the arm and manoeuvred him out of the cave. "He is sure. Now be a good lad and get me a report from the guards, will you?"

A dark grumbling clearly stated just what Lhanton thought about being a 'good lad', but Aragorn was hardly listening. As soon as the two other rangers had disappeared down the tunnel, he had taken up the bag of herbs Elladan had tossed him earlier and had withdrawn what fresh _athelas_ they still had. There were only six leaves left, cut two days ago. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

"What are you doing, Estel?" Elladan's voice was suddenly right next to him, and years-long experience in being snuck up on stopped the young man from startling visibly.

"What does it look like, Elladan?" Aragorn asked tiredly as he carefully placed the soft cloth in which the leaves were wrapped on the ground.

"Don't answer a question with a question. It's not polite," his brother admonished him and, for a brief, irrational second, Aragorn had to fight the urge to laugh.

"We're far beyond courtesy, are we not?" he asked.

"That is still no answer," Elladan said sharply, worry and fear tingeing his voice. Even Elrohir, who was still bandaging the deep wound on Celylith's thigh after finally having managed to stop the bleeding, stopped what he was doing and looked at him, and faced with a double dose of Elrondish scrutiny, Aragorn gave in.

"These burns are bad," he said, taking up Legolas' hand and gently turning it from side to side. A sudden draught made the flames of the nearby torch flicker wildly, making the injury look even more gruesome than before. "The flames destroyed the upper layers of skin, in some places completely. Even elven healing abilities may not be enough to repair the damage, no matter how we aid them."

Elladan didn't answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the sight of his friend's mutilated hand.  
"I will kill them," he muttered softly, as if to himself.

"You already did, _muindor_," Aragorn said. "They are dead, and if we do nothing, Celylith might still join them. And Legolas … he is an archer, Elladan. What would he do with a hand like this?"

"I know what Legolas is," Elladan answered tersely. "And I know that their injuries are serious. I asked you, however, what you were doing. I ask you again."

"Your healing abilities are not sufficient to deal with this, and neither are mine," Aragorn said, brutally honest. "_Ada_ would most likely be able to help them, but he is not here. There is only one thing we can do. There is only one thing _I_ can do."

Elladan looked at him for a moment, clearly confused, before his eyes came to rest on Aragorn's fingers that were brushing the green leaves of the kingsfoil. One could almost watch how the thought materialised in his mind, despite the fact that it was obviously very unwelcome there. _The hands of the king are the hands of a healer_.

"You have never tried it, Estel," Elrohir said before his brother could fully process what he had heard, automatically switching to Quenya. "It might not work at all. It is a part of who you are, yes, but there is a lot of concentration needed, and practice, too."

"And even if it did work, it is … draining," Elladan added in the same language, looking confused as to whether he should be angry or proud. "You are not used to it. You might harm yourself."

"And sitting here doing nothing while they worsen or die is not going to harm me?" Aragorn asked disbelievingly. "Do be reasonable, Elladan."

"Reasonable!" Elladan exclaimed. This time, the expression on his face was easier to read: He would have liked to strike his human brother, preferably with some hard and spiky. "Reasonable! That is rich, coming from you, Estel! A Elentári!"

"Elladan." It was the only thing Elrohir said, and his twin closed his mouth with a snap. If the situation had been any different, Aragorn would have smiled. Elrohir was the only person in the entire world – with the possible exception of their father – who could stop Elladan in mid-rant with only one word. "He does have a point, though, Estel. You are exhausted, and your wound has not yet healed. I don't think this is such a good idea, all things considered."

"I am all right." Aragorn's response was automatic.

"Four days ago an orc drove a scimitar into your side!" Elladan couldn't have looked more scandalised if Sauron had just paid him a visit to try and convince him that he was really a nice person and that world domination was actually quite a noble goal. Apparently, Elrohir's magic had worn off.

"Yes, well, he took it out again, didn't he?" Aragorn said lightly. "Is there still enough hot water left?"

"Estel. Stop and think for a moment. With everything that has been happening, with the one behind all this somehow connected to you – I really don't think this is a good idea."

"Maybe not," Aragorn admitted. "But it is the only idea we have." He looked at both of them earnestly. "You know that I am right. If we do not do this, Legolas might be crippled, and Celylith ... I don't think he would ever show his face again, if he survives. You are elves. You know how it would be."

The twins just looked at him, lips pressed together. Physical disability was something the Firstborn did not have to think about often, and when someone was afflicted by it, they often had a hard time coping. And for Celylith ... well. To be mutilated like that, and so visibly, too – that would be hard to bear. Celylith was old and sensible enough not to place exclusive value on his looks, but he was also an elf. Not being beautiful was just something he would never have needed to think about. An occasional battle scar – from that not even the Elves were exempt – was something completely different.

"_Ada_ is going to have our heads for this," Elrohir finally said.

For some reason, not even that thought scared Aragorn. It was most likely a sign of a mental illness in its advanced or possibly final stages.  
"We don't have to tell him."

"There is no way, absolutely no way at all, that we can hide something like this from him," Elladan said.

That was true, and Aragorn was an honest enough man to admit it to himself. He was, however, also not above pushing that fact to the back of his mind and ignoring it for as long as humanly possible.

"The water?" he asked again.

"There is still enough left, I think," Elrohir replied, reluctantly pushing the bowl over. "It's not boiling anymore, but it will have to do."

"Good."

Aragorn would have said more, and be it only to calm his nerves, but he found that he could not. No matter how strongly he had opposed the twins' refusal, he was not a fool, and he knew that what he was about to do was questionable at best and dangerous at worst. He had ever only heard about the powers of the kings of old, of the deeds of his ancestors who had been able to mend a broken body or even a soul, but he was not them. What he was at the moment was young and inexperienced and frightened, and he truly doubted that it was a fitting foundation for this. He knew what to do – technically speaking, that was –, but knowing something and actually doing it were two very different things.

Before he could convince himself that the twins were right, he reached out and placed a hand on Legolas' forehead, his fingertips resting lightly on the elf's closed lids. His friend's presence was strong even after what he had gone through, pulsing brightly and almost visibly when he closed his eyes to concentrate. He would not decide to join his grandfather and his other ancestors in the Halls of Waiting, not any time soon, at least, but that was not the concern here, was it?

Opening his eyes again, he took up two of the_athelas_ leaves, doing his best not to look as doubtful as he felt. He knew that this should be a serious, a solemn moment even that he should bear with dignity and pride, but he only felt vaguely stupid as he breathed on the leaves and crushed them between trembling hands. His doubts were assuaged, however, by the instantaneous freshness that seemed to fill the small, gloomy cave, as if it had been transformed into a garden full of living, green things. Feeling slightly calmer, he tossed the crushed athelas into the hot water with a flick of his wrist. The calming, sunny fragrance increased, and Aragorn found that he was slightly calmer when he turned back to his motionless friend.

Of what happened then, he had few clear memories. There was only velvety, soundless darkness of deep concentration that was now and again interrupted by sharp stabs of dim light and the sight of Legolas' still face. It was as if something had awoken inside of him, some sort of source of hidden strength or power that he had never known he possessed. There was a sense of … draining, just as Elladan had predicted, feeling as if his being was slowly but surely losing cohesion around the edges, and he did not fight it. A warm, numbing glow seemed to surround him, just like the rays of the midday sun, and when he opened his eyes again, he was sure that he glowed.

Feeling as if he glowed, however, didn't seem to stop him from nearly falling on his face as soon as he broke the connexion between Legolas and himself – just when had he taken a hold of Legolas' arm? Strong hands caught him before he could make intimate and quite probably painful contact with the stone floor. He was propped up against someone's shoulder, and when his eyes decided to join the rest of him and start working, he saw that one of the twins was looking at him, eyes bright with worry.

It took him several heartbeats to realise that the twin in question was Elladan, and that alone was enough to send a stab of bright, burning worry through his heart. He hadn't confused the twins with each other since he had been three years old – and that had only happened because both of them had been equally unrecognisable under a thick layer of mud –, and that he actually needed some time to decide who was who frightened him more than he was wiling to admit to himself.

"Estel?" Elladan asked, his hands cupping his face. "Are you all right? Can you hear me?"

Aragorn blinked up at him, allowing himself to be steadied by Elrohir's strong arms. The elf's voice seemed to come from a long way away, as if he was standing at the end of a long, twisting tunnel and was shouting the words at him, and he didn't even have the slightest idea what he had just said. He could just as well have spoken the words in a foreign language.

"Did … work?" he finally brought out, deciding to ignore his brother's questions and the way the cave seemed to be tilting around its own axis.

"Oh, it worked," Elrohir said behind him, something in his voice that was quite unidentifiable. Aragorn didn't have the strength to try and turn around and look for himself, no matter how much he wanted to. "You need to rest, _muindor nín_."

"No," Aragorn said, profoundly relieved that, this time, he had understood what his brother had said. "Celylith…"

"…will not thank you for killing yourself for him," Elladan finished his sentence. "Elrohir is right. You need to rest. You…"

"No." There was so much calm conviction in the young ranger's voice that it halted even a son of Elrond in mid-sentence. "There is no time. I am all right, I really am. It is … draining, just as you said."

"Estel…" Elladan tried again.

"No," Aragorn repeated, his voice utterly unmoved. "Help me over to him, please."

It takes fatally stubborn creatures to recognise one of their own, and so the twins complied with his wishes with the minimum amount of protests and attempts to change his mind. There was a gap in Aragorn's memory, then, a short interval as dark as Moria and just as impenetrable, and he could only assume that he had repeated his earlier actions. He came back to himself with one hand cupping Celylith's face, his slightly trembling fingers carefully arranged around the burns. Celylith was there, too, Aragorn sensed, but far away, his presence only the merest hint in the distance.

Aragorn closed his eyes to concentrate – not that it seemed to make much of a difference at the moment – and there was that warm glow again that radiated power in a way that must have been almost visible. This time, the draining sensation was not as strong as earlier, at least not initially. Little by little, however, he felt how his strength ran out of him, like water trickling out of a leaky barrel.

After what felt like a small eternity, it was finally gone completely, leaving him empty and drained and utterly powerless, and he had nothing left with which to fight the darkness that rushed in to take its place.  
**  
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**As soon as Aragorn woke up, Elladan decided very calmly, he would have to kill him. Since the man – the _idiot_, he corrected himself – was his brother, he would do it quickly and relatively painlessly, but not _too_ painlessly. Aragorn had been so reckless that even thinking about it actually hurt, and he deserved whatever pain he'd feel while he bashed his head in with something blunt and heavy.

He could hit him with one of the heavy wooden trunks which their father used to store healing supplies, he thought, which would actually be a kind of poetic justice.

Elladan took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. If Elrohir caught him like this, there would be trouble. His brother had always been the calmer, more reasonable one, and he found it hard to understand how very _hard_ it sometimes was for him to control him temper. Elrohir lost control over his emotions as well, of course, and if there was one thing he had learned early, it was never to be present when his twin was truly angry.

It was just not worth it. Elrohir would accept a lot more things than him, smiling all the way, before he quite literally exploded. He was a lot like their father in this regard, simmering with anger until it had nowhere to go, and he was a frightening sight to behold when he finally decided to let whomever had annoyed him have a piece of his mind. He himself was more like their mother (and grandfather), he supposed. He lost his temper quite easily – for an elf, that was –, but at least he wasn't as fearsome when he did it.

That was what he liked to believe, at least.

Elladan sat back, his eyes not leaving Aragorn's white face. Right now, he was willing to imitate his twin and lose his temper in a spectacular, never-been-seen-before fashion. He would have to wait until his sad excuse for a brother regained consciousness, but that was all right. There was no way Aragorn would escape his wrath, at least not this time. Haldar had only been able to tell them what he knew about Aragorn's vision, and so they would have to wait for him to wake up until they could find out just how he had been able to find Legolas and Celylith. Elladan strongly suspected, however, that by the time Aragorn would be finished explaining he would have even more reason to yell at him.

"How is he?" a soft voice to his right asked, and he took his time to turn around to face the speaker. It could only be Haldar, after all, since there was no one else in the tent with him, and even despite the fact that they had come to some sort of agreement over the past few days, he did not really like the ranger.

It wasn't Haldar's fault in the least, he was an honest enough elf to admit that, but there was nothing to be done about it. He was a Noldo, after all, and he wholeheartedly believed in the philosophy of "Kill the messenger". Well, maybe not kill him per se, he thought after a moment, but rather "Hit him over the head and tie him up until his identity and credentials are firmly established". The differentiation between the two could be hard from time to time.

"Exhausted," he finally replied. "He tore his stitches sometime tonight. Elrohir put them back in; the wound is not infected and he didn't lose too much blood. But he overextended himself tonight. He will be asleep for a while, I think, and will be weak and tired once he wakes up."

Haldar, who was no unobservant man, noted the one aspect of the statement bound to infuriate the elven twin.  
"You _think_?"

"Yes, I _think_," Elladan answered, fighting the sudden and very powerful urge to strangle the ranger. But no, that wouldn't do; Daervagor would be displeased, he reasoned, and so would Aragorn. That was not really a reason not to do it, he decided a moment later. Daervagor had done little more than infuriate him over the past few days, and Aragorn deserved whatever was coming to him. "I cannot know for certain, since I haven't witnessed anything like this before. My brother and I believe that it is, basically, nothing more than exhaustion. If we are right, he should be fine, provided he gets enough rest."

Haldar, while expecting this kind of answer, had clearly been hoping for a more positive one. He sat back with a sigh, his boots dirtying his bedding without him noticing, and scrubbed a hand over the dark bristles covering his chin. He suddenly looked older than he was – older than Daervagor – and there was a strange kind of worried hopelessness on his face when he looked at Elladan again that was easy enough to see in the flickering light that two oil lamps cast.

"He tried to heal them, didn't he?

"No, Haldar," Elladan said, strangely enough feeling affronted in his human brother's stead. It was very strange indeed, since he would have liked to strangle Aragorn for his actions. "He didn't 'try' to heal them. Essentially, he did. Both of them will need some time to recover, a lot of time, in Celylith's case – but he will not be scarred for life. And Legolas will not be crippled. For all intents and purposes, he did heal them."

It was silent for a moment, or as silent as it could get in a ranger camp where half a company had just returned from an unauthorised trip and was now in the process of being disciplined – all right, yelled at – by their captain. Daervagor had not been happy to see them return – or rather, had not been happy to see them return in such a state –, and he had no qualms at all about showing that, too.

"He shouldn't have done that," Haldar finally said tiredly. "The dangers…"

"I know," Elladan interrupted him. "Valar, I know. We tried to reason with him, I swear to you, we did, but he wouldn't listen."

"I have no trouble believing you, my lord," Haldar assured him. "He can be stubborn."

"Can?" Elladan asked. "He _is_ stubborn, Manwë be my witness."

Haldar mumbled something under his breath that quite sounded like "And I wonder where he gets it from", but Elladan was thinking about enough things already and was willing to let it go.

"I have been meaning to speak with you, my lord," Haldar said finally, staring straight ahead and doing his very best not to meet his eyes. The man was still frightened of him, at least a little bit, and Elladan would have lied if that didn't feel at least slightly satisfying. "It seems that now is as good a time as any." The ranger frowned. "Actually, now might be a very good time. There is an above average chance that there won't be another catastrophe until at least this morning."

Elladan found that he had to agree with that.  
"Slightly above average, yes."

"It is about Amlaith," Haldar went on, obviously ignoring the sarcastic undertone in Elladan's voice. "I already talked with Estel about it, but I assume that he will not be talking with the captain about it tonight."

"That is a rather fair guess, yes," Elladan agreed with a quick look at his motionless human brother. As always when he was worried about Estel, he found the sight of his little brother's closed eyes incredibly disconcerting, despite the fact that he knew that it was perfectly normal for humans even under normal circumstances. "In fact, I am not even sure he'll be talking to him this morning."

"Exactly," Haldar said, nodding. "I think you have noticed as well that Amlaith is behaving ... hostile towards Estel." He looked at the elven twin meaningfully. "Exceptionally hostile."

"Yes," Elladan said slowly and quite deliberately. "I had noticed something like that."

"It is hard not to notice." Haldar snorted. "Estel does not think that there is more to it than mistrust and grief and maybe ill-conceived guilt, but I am not so sure. I think that Amlaith might have been involved in ... all this."

Elladan looked at him with new respect. He hadn't thought that the usually so straightforward ranger could entertain this kind of suspicion against one of his own men.  
"So you think he might be working for the mysterious man behind the scenes? If he is a man, of course."

"I am not sure," the man said, shrugging. "I am not sure about anything at the moment. But he is behaving suspiciously, and I will not have him endanger Estel if there is anything to be done about it."

"Nor I, for certain," Elladan agreed. "We could question him."

"Even if he is involved in what is going on, he will only deny everything and his accomplices would be warned." Haldar shook his head. "I think it would be best if we simply kept a very close eye on him or sent him back to his company. The captain will decide which solution is the best one."

"That he will," Elladan muttered. "I have no doubts about it."

Haldar only nodded quietly, and for a few minutes neither of them said a word. The silence between them was heavy and oppressive, and neither of them was willing to break it. If stares were audible, Aragorn would have woken up by the noise alone.

Long before Haldar's head came up, Elladan had heard footsteps coming closer, and he had to use no creativity at all to imagine who they might belong to. Sure enough, it was Daervagor who pulled the tent flap aside, his face very, very expressionless. Elladan, who had known the man for years, knew that this was a bad sign. Daervagor was not a man prone to expressing his feelings – or, as more than one recruit after his first weeks of training had claimed, any kind of facial expression at all –, but when he was looking _this _neutral, something was very, very wrong indeed.

Haldar, displaying healthy survival instincts, got to his feet in an instant and gave his superior a quick nod.  
"Sir."

"Haldar," Daervagor said with a friendly nod of his own. If one looked closely, however, it didn't look all that friendly anymore. "We will have to have a discussion, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, sir," Haldar said, lowering his head. He looked rather like a lamb going to slaughter.

"It can, however, wait, at least for a while," the captain went on. "You did manage to bring back the men in one piece – with one very notable exception."

If anything, Haldar's expression became even more shamefaced.  
"I regret that very much, sir."

Daervagor's expression softened the tiniest bit.  
"I know you do. We can talk about it later."

"Yes, sir," Haldar said, clearly trying not to show how relieved he was and failing. "I will leave you, then." He turned to nod at Elladan. "My lord."

"Haldar." Elladan returned the nod. "I will mention your ... theories."

"Thank you, my lord," Haldar said, ignoring his captain's questioning look, and a second later he was gone. The tent flap didn't even move after he had disappeared, and Elladan inwardly nodded approvingly. Haldar had very healthy survival instincts indeed.

For a few moments, it was silent while Daervagor settled down on the foldable chair opposite of Elladan. It creaked softly a few time while the captain shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. In the end, the ranger gave up, apparently admitting to himself that him being uncomfortable had nothing to do with the chair.

"So."

Elladan, who had known Daervagor for many years, would almost have smiled. Nonchalance was something the man didn't do very well.  
"Yes?" he asked.

Daervagor gave him a look that would have curdled fresh milk.  
"What happened, Elladan?"

"That is a very good question, my friend," Elladan said tiredly. "I do not know."

"Well, neither do I," Daervagor retorted. "Nor do my men. There were no trails leaving from the cave anywhere, so we do not know where the rest of those thrice-cursed beasts are hiding. And," he added somewhat sourly, "there were no survivors we could have questioned."

Elladan gave him a blank look.  
"You have already spoken with my brother, I assume?"

"Yes." The captain nodded. "He is still with the prince and his companion. They are, apparently, doing as well as can be expected," he added, anticipating the elf's next question. "To be honest, I wouldn't have believed that they could survive injuries such as those."

Elladan wasn't an ineloquent elf, but for a second he found his throat closing up.

"It looks worse than it is," he finally said. "You know yourself how burns are. But when we found them…" He shook his head. "Celylith would have died, I am sure about it. Maybe not right away, maybe not even tonight, but soon. And Legolas wouldn't have been much better off."

"They still look quite bad," Daervagor repeated. "But your brother said they would heal, and that is what matters."

"Yes," Elladan agreed. "That is what matters."

Daervagor made a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat that was a cross between a grunt and a snort.

"The only question remaining – no, one of the questions remaining, actually – is just _how_ they got better. The men hadn't got a very good look; they think the two of them got lucky and attribute it to your healing skills and elven regenerative powers. I, however, have seen you injured enough times…"

"You haven't seen us injured that many times, Daervagor."

"Yes, I have," the man disagreed. "I visited Arathorn while he was being fostered in Imladris, do you not remember? There was that one time including the pools and that birch tree and…"

"Oh yes," Elladan quickly interrupted him, fighting the sudden blush that wanted to spread over his features. "_That_ incident. I had forgotten all about it."

"Apparently," Daervagor said wryly. "My point, if you would allow me to make it, is that I know the extent of what an elf's body can recuperate from. I also know that look in your brother's eyes – and in yours –, the one that says that you just had a bad scare and haven't got over it yet, and probably will not get over it for some time. There are not many things that frighten the Firstborn, Elladan, that frighten _you_, and a little confrontation with a few orcs is not one of them."

"Indeed," the twin said calmly.

"Someone healed them, or at least stopped them from worsening so you could get them here," Daervagor went on, once again proving that he could build a logical chain of events as well as the next intelligent person. "I know it wasn't Elrohir, and I don't think it was you. In fact, judging by your look and that shocked, guilty expression of Haldar's, I would say that _he_," he gave Aragorn a pointed look, "did."

"'He' is your cousin's son," Elladan said far more sharply than he had intended. "Your best friend's son. _My_ brother. Do not forget that, Daervagor."

"You think I would forget it?" Daervagor asked, obviously flabbergasted. "How could I forget it, when he looks at me every day with Gilraen's eyes? When he turns his head to the side in the exact same manner that Arathorn did when he was puzzled?"

Elladan closed his eyes and shook his head, already regretting his hasty words. There were not many things he tried to avoid at all costs, but getting involved in that epic, not-happening fight between Aragorn and Daervagor was one of them.

"I do not presume to understand what is going on between the two of you," he began, once again making an attempt to rectify this situation. He didn't think that he would be having much success; Estel had blocked off each and every one of their attempts to help and Daervagor was just as stubborn. "But Estel is my brother in every way that counts. You are my friend, and have been for many years. I do not wish you to be at odds."

Daervagor didn't say anything and only looked rather fixedly at the off-white fabric in front of his eyes, and Elladan knew when he was beaten. Neither Elrohir nor he knew exactly what the fight of these two had been about – and not for lack of trying, truly –, but he knew that he would receive no help (or information) from Daervagor. But that was exactly what infuriated him so: How could he help them if neither ranger told him anything?

There was of course the possibility that they didn't want him to help them and wanted to deal with the problem themselves, but that was hardly a concern of his.

"Very well, hold your silence," Elladan said, fighting to keep his voice level despite the turmoil of his emotions. "It is nothing less than your right. But Arathorn was my friend as much as yours, and I will not let this rest. Neither will Elrohir, I would imagine. And that," he added wryly, "is our right."

"And I would never content it."

Daervagor, as Elladan knew, could be quite smooth-tongued if he wanted to be. It didn't happen often, mind you. The elf knew that he should break the silence that had descended, but he found that he did not wish to. It wasn't that he was angry per se. He was not angry at Daervagor or Aragorn, he was angry at both of them, and it wouldn't do to lose his temper with one of them now when he could lose it later when both of them were present. It would be more effective.

"Very well, then," Daervagor finally gave in, faced with this much calmness. There were not many mortals who could stand being faced with purposeful elven silence. "So he healed them. Why did you let him?"

Elladan only raised a single dark eyebrow.  
"Have you ever tried dissuading him from something on which he has set his mind? It would be easier to convince a hobbit to go on a diet."

"The boy considers you his..." Daervagor began with slight hesitation.

"His brothers, yes," Elladan said, nodding. "But we are not his keepers. Estel does as he sees fit. And he quite obviously saw it fit to prevent his friends from dying." He arched his brows quizzically. "Would you have acted any differently?"

"Generally speaking, no," the man answered readily. "But I do not have prophetic dreams and vision in which cloaked miscreants look over my shoulder."

"That was actually the concern which we raised with him," Elladan said, grimacing. "He was not swayed." Daervagor looked at him disapprovingly, and he shook his head. "I know you are worried about him, _mellon nín_. We are, too, you know how much, but we cannot protect him from everything."

"I am not talking about protecting him from everything," Daervagor disagreed. "I am simply talking about the fact that he risked much, unnecessarily so."

"I would hardly call the risk unnecessary," Elladan replied mildly, grimacing inwardly when he realised what he was doing. He was defending his idiot brother – however did the boy do it, especially considering that he was unconscious? "He saved his best friend's hand, if not his life. To him, that made it worth the risk, and, loath as I am to admit it, I believe that I would have acted similarly had I been in his place."

"Then at least promise me you will talk to him," Daervagor pressed him. "What he did was incredibly dangerous. Should this dark figure from his dreams somehow discover who he is, he will be lost and with him the hope of my people. I know that he thought about his actions and weighed his choices, but please, impress upon him the seriousness of this situation."

Elladan looked at his friend seriously, asking himself if he should tell him how much more likely Aragorn was to listen to him than to Elrohir or him. He did not understand the relationship of the two rangers – and, if he was honest, he rather doubted that any normal beings could, be they men or elves –, but he did know that Aragorn was almost desperate for the captain's approval.

No, he finally decided. They didn't seem to want him to get involved in their business or relationship, now did they?

"I will take care of it," he promised. "I have a favour to ask of you as well, though."

For the first time since he had entered the tent, Daervagor smiled.  
"You need only ask, Elladan, and it will be done."

"Do not promise things you might not be able to keep," Elladan advised him.

"What do you wish me to do?" Daervagor asked quietly.

"Amlaith."

"What about him?" the captain asked, his eyes narrowing and clearly stating that he had at least a fair idea about what Elladan was speaking of.

"I had a little conversation with Haldar," Elladan elaborated. "He thinks that Amlaith isn't quite as uninvolved in all this as it seems."

"Are you accusing one of my men of treason?"

"Yes, I think that is what I am doing," Elladan agreed evenly. "Technically speaking, he isn't one of your men. Besides, we all knew it would be coming to this. How else did you think we would be finding out who is working for the wrong side? By not accusing them of anything, asking them over for a cup of tea and smiling at them nicely until they confessed?"

"No," Daervagor bit out. He'd never possessed much of a sense of humour under pressure. "Of course not, Elladan, and you know it. It's just … his reaction when he found out about his friend's death … I am having trouble believing it."

"To be honest, so am I," Elladan said, expelling air in a long sigh. "I am resigned to the idea of a traitor in our midst – or at least close to us –, but Amlaith … it doesn't feel right." He grimaced. "That, of course, is the best reason imaginable why he will burst into this tent within the next ten seconds, start laughing maniacally and tell us about his diabolical plan."

Daervagor ostentatiously waited for several seconds, his head cocked to the side, before he turned back to him.  
"Nothing yet."

"Give it time," Elladan advised him. "I don't know what to believe at the moment, my friend. I just know that I will not see Estel placed in any kind of danger that he doesn't have to be in."

"Indeed." Daervagor nodded solemnly. "The boy is in enough of it already."

"So what will you do about Amlaith?"

"What can I do?" Daervagor shrugged almost helplessly. "If we accuse him openly, he will deny everything and his accomplices will be warned."

"That is just what Haldar said," Elladan agreed. "And I believe the both of you are right."

"There is only one option, then," the dark-haired man told him. "As soon as Cemendur returns, I will have him arrange someone to keep an eye on Amlaith at all times. This way, we will know exactly what he does, and where he goes, and whom he meets. It is the best thing we can do at the moment."

Elladan noticed that he was frowning darkly and quickly smoothed expression, but not quite fast enough. Daervagor had noticed his displeasure and now looked at him questioningly.  
"What is it, my lord? Do you not agree?"

"I do agree," Elladan assured him. "It is just … Cemendur has been acting rather strange himself."

Daervagor sighed and covered his eyes with his hand.  
"Him, too?"

"If you would ask Celylith – which, admittedly, would be rather hard at the moment –, you would hear much stronger words than just 'strange'," the elf went on coolly. "Our presence here seems to displease him, and I am at a loss to explainwhy." 

"He is not the friendliest person in this camp," Daervagor admitted. "Actually, he is not an outwardly friendly person at all. But he is my friend, Elladan, and has been for years. Take a care."

"And Estel is my brother," Elladan countered. "So you may tell _him_ to take a care, lest Elrohirand I become suspicious of his motives."

"Duly noted," said Daervagor with the sort of quick smile that looked more like a baring of teeth. "But you may take my word for it, my lord, when I tell you that Cemendur has nothing to do with this. He has a wife and a half-grown nephew to take care of, and would never betray our people in such a way. Or," he added with a dangerous look in his eyes, "me. I would not entrust the life of my son to anyone whom I did not trust completely. Or the life of my cousin's son."

"Then we will leave it at that," Elladan said with a diplomatic nod that would have made his brother proud. "Forgive me if I have offended you, _mellon nín_. When I am worried, I do not always weigh my words as I ought to."

"You did not offend me, my friend." Daervagor shook his head. "All our nerves are strained and tempers are rising. It is understandable."

It was understandable for Men, indeed, but not for Elves, but Elladan kept that thought to himself. He would not call attention to his lack of control, least of all in front of Daervagor or another ranger. 

"All in all," Daervagor said after several seconds of silence, "it could have been worse. Your companions are still alive, and so are all our men. We discovered them just in time. We did not find any tracks leading away from the cave, but at least we got all of the orcs."

"Yes, one would think so," Elladan said softly.

"Then why do _you_ not think so?"

"Oh, I do," Elladan said with a quick smile and raised his head from his intense study of Aragorn's very motionless right hand. "It is just … did someone tell you about what the orc said, inthe end?"

"It said something?" Daervagor asked, both of his eyebrows raised.

"Oh, that one was quite eloquent." There was a faint sneer of disgust curling Elladan's upper lip. "I heard it while I was climbing up to the cave."

'Climbing' was actually quite a tame word, Elladan admitted to himself. He had positively flown up the path after leavinga protesting Elrohir withthe rather intimidated pair of rangers who had been standing watch at the foot of the hill. In fact, he suspected that he had covered the distance in a rather un-elf-lordly rush.

"So, what did it say, then?" Daervagor prompted him, and only now did Elladan realise that he hadremained silent for several long moments.

"Estel was trying to get it to release Legolas," he began slowly. "It didn't, of course, but it used the opportunity to taunt him."

"Orcs like to do that," the man said carefully, looking at Elladan's openly troubled face. "They also like to lie."

"I don't think this one did." Elladan shook his head. "It told Estel that he shouldn't worry about Legolas, because … because its leader wanted _him_. It told Estel that its leader wanted him, and that he would stop at nothing to get him."

"The leader … you mean, the one behind all this?" Daervagor said, paling rapidly.

"I do not know," Elladan said slowly. "I am … not sure. It said a name … Skagrosh, I think. It sounds orcish to me."

"Yes," Daervagor agreed, relief obvious in voice. "And to me. If we are right about that mysterious person pulling the strings, it cannot be an orc."

"No, it cannot." Elladan nodded. "I think the logical conclusion is that the orc was speaking about its direct superior – the leader of the horde –, and not the one giving them orders."

"I see." Daervagor didn't say more for a few moments, but then he added, "So it means that there is only a bloodthirsty orc out for Estel's blood, and not a mysterious, hooded creature who is possibly tied to the Dark One."

"Essentially, yes."

"Ah." The man looked thoughtful for a moment before he shrugged. "Well, as I said, it could have been worse."

**  
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The night was almost over, the first hints of the coming day visible in the almost undetectable brightening of the horizon. The wind had picked up, making the trees around him rattle ominously, and only the occasional hoot of an owl disturbed the silence of the night, causing it to appear even darker and more ominous than before. 

All things considered, Halbarad was bored.

He knew he shouldn't be, and he would never – under absolutely no circumstances – have admitted his feelings to anybody, least of all his father. His father loved him and his sisters dearly, the young ranger knew that, but he would not hesitate to assign him to kitchen duty until he reached his fifth decade if he should think it justified. And that, Halbarad concluded darkly, would be the best case scenario. There might also be a prolonged scouting mission to the icy regions of Forodwaith, and if there was one thing he hated, it was the cold.

And since his father knew that, there would most definitely be a prolonged scouting mission to Forodwaith.

Even though he was bored, he was most certainly not being inattentive. He had buried three comrades a few days ago and more before that, one of them a good friend, and he needed no further motivation to be vigilant. Besides, it was not only his safety that was at stake here, it was his companions' and the entire village's, too, and therefore yet another reason to watchhis surroundings with the eyes of a hawk. Oh, and there was the possibility of incurring his father's wrath, as mentioned before, which was, if he was perfectly honest, an even worse fate than being captured by a horde of orcs.

The young ranger pulled his cloak a bit tighter around himself. The night was not a cold one, but the dark fabric would help him blend into his surroundings and deceive the casual observer into thinking that he was just another shadow. He leaned onto his spear, mentally calculating how much time he had until he had to make another round. The commander had convinced the village council that setting a watch might not be a bad idea, the settlement's fortifications notwithstanding. After the news they had just brought – the news ofCiryon's and the others' deaths – they had agreed very willingly and quickly. The latter, at least, was something very novel in connexion with this village. Halbarad didn't think he had ever met so many old men who liked to talk quite that much.

So, that was the reason why he was making round after round just inside the protective circle of the palisade instead of lying in a nice, soft haystack like the rest of his companions. Well, only half of them, of course. Limhith and Naurdholen were up as well, Naurdholen postedto the south and Limhith to the northwest, while he had taken over the east. Commander Cemendur was, while not exactly the most amiable of persons, at least a generally fair man, who would never only assign one man to a duty when several would do just as well. Thinking about it now, he didn't suppose that that was particularly fair.

A soft, crackling sound could be heard to his right, and Halbarad grew very, very still while he fixed his surroundings with a sharp glance. The village was dark and quiet at his back, not even a cock or a dog interrupting the silence of the night. A moment later he relaxed, his hand falling away from the hilt of his sword. It was only Naurdholen, who was trudging up to him, a mixture of tiredness and slight aggravation on his face that was easy enough to see even despite the scarce light that the waning moon cast.

Halbarad felt the slightest stab of guilt for a moment – he should have been meeting the other ranger half-way at least, showing him that all was well – before he squashed it quite effortlessly. Limhith and Naurdholen had got the easier sectors after all, with Limhith overlooking a sparsely wooded, rather steep decline and Naurdholen the road. He had half a bloody forest to watch, and them having to walk a bit didn't even begin to even the scores.

"What's the password?" he called softly, knowing that the other ranger would have trouble seeing him, standing motionless in the shadows as he was.

True enough, Naurdholen stopped in his tracks and looked about. There were not all that many places to hide here – the rampart (if you wanted to call it that, for Halbarad thought that it was a rather grand word for the slight, but long earthen mound that was just high enough to bring them up to the level of the embrasures) was naturally bare and there were not many large trees or thickets close-by –, and so he soon spied him leaning against a single large oak tree, motionless as a statue.

"I can _see_ you, in Elbereth's name," Naurdholen stated a little incredulously, "and you can see me, and you want to know the password?"

"Yes," Halbarad said and flashed him a quick grin that was barely visible in the darkness. "How else could I make sure who you are?"

"Halbarad," Naurdholen began with the exaggerated patience of the young for the slightly younger, "it is another half-hour until Arien will even think about making her charge rise above the horizon. Until being woken by our charming commander, I was sleeping peacefully in a very comfortable haystack, whose softness I can still remember vividly. We are trudging through the darkness, circling the most boring palisade wall I have ever seen in my life, and, even knowing all this, you wish to tease me?"

"I wouldn't use the word 'tease'," Halbarad said slowly. "I think 'mock' is more appropriate."

"If times weren't so dire, I would most likely find a couple of trolls and feed you to them," Naurdholen said darkly as he walked over to him.

"Most likely, yes." Halbarad nodded amiably. "So, the password?"

The older ranger raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unable to believe that anyone could be this moronic, but gave in eventually. The thought that it was unwise – not to mention impolite – to hit aclearly insane manwas so easilyvisible on his face that it might as well have been painted on his forehead in three inches high letters.

"_Aurë entuluva!_" he finally said.

Halbarad smiled in satisfaction.  
"And to think," he said, shaking his head, "that some people think that the commander doesn't have a sense of humour."

"I wouldn't call it a sense of humour," Naurdholen protested. "I would call it malice."

"Not exactly malice, no," Halbarad disagreed. "Just because we are out here and he is at home, in bed with his beautiful wife … wait, I think you are correct."

"Of course I am," the other ranger said. "So, iseverything quiet around here?"

"Everything isquiet," Halbarad said with a nod. "There was some movement in the woods a little bit earlier, but before I could even notch an arrow, it turned out to be a rather bold hare."

"Why didn't you shoot it?" Naurdholen asked, hefting up his spear. "I hate this kind of night watch. The thought of some breakfast would have sustained me, though."

Halbarad would rather eat his cloak, brooch and all, before he would ever admit that the animal had looked so peaceful and content nibbling on some morsel or other that he couldn't have shot it even if he'd wanted to.

"You are always thinking with your stomach," he said instead. "And we are not camping out in the open. I am sure we will get some sort of breakfast before we leave."

That was actually true – the Dúnedain treated their warriors with respect and generosity, after all –, and so Naurdholen let it go.

"I will be returning to my post, then. When you make your next round around the ramparts, be careful. I really don't like this corner. It's far too exposed."

"So is that stretch right next to the gates," Halbarad answered dismissively. "_You_ should be careful."

Naurdholen looked at him with the look he had come to loathe with all his heart, the look he received quite often due to the fact that he was the youngest and most inexperienced member of their company. It was a look full of protective condescension that clearly stated that, if it was only possible, young boys such as himself shouldn't be allowed out of the house at night for their own safety. Or during daylight, for that matter; the time of day rarely seemed to matter.

"I will be," the other ranger told him.

"Of course you will be," Halbarad grumbled softly. It was late – or early, actually –, and he was in no mood to be patronised. "That is why we took up position where we did, isn't it? Why they haven't strengthened or at least replaced these sections, I don't know. It's not as if there isn't enough wood for it."

Naurdholen nodded in agreement, eyes sweeping over the offending part of the palisade. That was the main reason why the commander had urged the council to post a watch tonight – these three sections were really only too easy to scale. The saving grace was that it was not visible from the outside, since it was not possible to see just how high the rampart was on the inside. But two of the spots – this one and the one to the northwest – were even worse than the third, since the area in front of the palisade was also slightly raised. Not so much that it was easily seen, but a keen observer might notice the fact that there was a slight rise leading up to the palisade, and might decided that, if he wanted to attack the village, these were the points where he'd direct his men.

Thankfully, orcs were not exactly known to be keen observers.

Still, these sections compromised the safety of the entire village, and after they'd gone the villagers would have to mount a night watch, at least until they had done something about the problem. That there would be done something about it, and soon, Halbarad did not doubt. There weren't many motivators as effective as the very real threat of an orc attack, death and torture.

"They will," Naurdholen echoed his thoughts. "There hasn't been the need before now, but with everything that has been happening … well, I think it will be repaired in a few days' time. I even think they are considering changing locations."

"They wish to move?" Halbarad repeated. "The whole village?"

The other ranger shrugged. There were permanent Ranger settlements in Northern Eriador, most of them in the Angle, and it did not happen often that they were moved. Most of them had been erected a long time ago and by people who knew what they were doing; they were mostly located in easily defensible, well-hidden places whose identity few non-Dúnedain knew.

But things changed and so had the times, and if it would help preserve the life of even one of his people, Halbarad would personally help them pack up their things and move to the highest peak of the Misty Mountains.

Well, maybe not really the Misty Mountains – he really, really didn't like the cold –, but somewhere close-by, at least.

"I wouldn't say that they wish to move." Naurdholen shook his head. "But they are considering it, yes."

"Something must be done," Halbarad stated in a calm, uncompromising tone of voice that would have reminded most people of his father. "These thrice-damned creatures _must_ be found!"

Naurdholen looked at him, for a moment appearing startled by the deadly timbre in his voice, but he hardly noticed. A sudden anger washed over him, making his left hand clench tightly around his spear. The Dúnedain of the North had been hunted for many years by the servants of the Dark One; they had been forced into hiding and obscurity. They were a dying race, and well did they know it, not unlike their allies, the Elves, who could do barely more than protect their own realms. They had lost so much, suffered so much, and seen so many of their loved ones die, and now they should lose what was left of their homes?

"Something _will_ be done," the other ranger assured him. "Your father and Lord Elrond's sons are planning something. They'll inform the rest of the Captains, and then these goblins will wish they'd never crawled out of their holes!"

Halbarad, who knew his father better than anyone except his mother, his grandparents and maybe Commander Cemendur, rather doubted that, but kept his silence. He knew how his father was when he had a plan – and be it only a plan for an unannounced visit with which to surprise his wife for their anniversary –, and this was not exactly it. It was close, yes, so Naurdholen was most likely right when he said that his father and the elves were planning something. The problem was that Halbarad rather doubted that his father truly believed that whatever they were planning would work.

Whatever that was, he concluded the thought darkly. It wasn't as if anybody was telling _him_ what this was all about.

"I daresay you are right," he said softly.

"I am," the other ranger declared with an overabundance of conviction. "It is anothertwo hours before our shift ends, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, I would think so." Halbarad nodded.

"Good," Naurdholen nodded and hefted up his spear. "Keep an eye on that section of the palisade."

"Yes, sir."

The older man smiled at him before he turned and left. A few moments later he had disappeared in the darkness, and not even Halbarad's keeneyes could discern his movements amongst the shadows. Halbarad still looked after him for a few moments before he took up his spear and dutifully followed the well-trodden path on top of the ramparts. The sun had still not risen or even begun to yet, but dawn was most certainly approaching, and with it the twilight that so many soldiers feared – and that with good reason. It was one of the most popular times of day to stage an attack; the opponent would be deeply asleep, the guards would be tired and the twilight would make it hard to get one's bearing, especially when taken by surprise…

Halbarad took a deep breath, gave the dark, still line that was the edge of the forest a quick look and forced himself to abandon that train of thought. He wasn't usually one given to panicky foreboding, and he could not truly account for his sudden nervousness. It must be their current situation, he finally reasoned, dividing his attention between the forest and the area close to the palisade that he could spot through the embrasures.

Rangers were, as a rule, not prone to gossip; it was frowned upon and thought incompatible with a warrior's pride. Then again, they were only human, and humans … well, they did like to talk from time to time. And, by the Valar, there had been a lot to talk about lately. He knew as muchas any of the men – next to nothing, really –, and he was no moron, which automatically resulted in him being worried and nervous. It was only natural, he thought, and, moreover, probably a sign of a healthy sense of self-preservation.

But he didn't only worry about these latest catastrophes that seemed to have befallen them. They were, at least to his mind, not all that complex, strange as it might have sounded. Someone was hunting his people – his comrades and his family –, someone was killing and torturing them, and someone would pay for it. Sooner or later, they would find them, and show them just what happened to those who incurred the wrath of the Dúnedain.

What bothered him almost as much was Estel, and not in the way he seemed to bother Amlaith. He didn't think that the foster brother of Lord Elrond's sons was in any way involved in all this – he was the elf lord adopted son, after all, and even though Halbarad did not know the Lord of Imladris he did not think him to be such a poor judge of character. He didn't distrust the other man in any way, really, and actually liked him quite a lot.

There was something strange about him, though, and by that he didn't only mean the fact that he'd seemed to know what would happen to Ciryon _before_ it had happened. He was a ranger, after all, and the Gift was strong enough in his family that he would never look down onor disbelieve anyone who told himthat he had a really, really bad feeling about something and or had an idea of what just might be happening in the next hour or so.

No, there was some sort of connexion there that he couldn't even explain to himself, coupled with the vague, very annoying fact that the slightly older ranger reminded him of someone. He didn't know of whom, and that evasive, wispy knowledge was enough to drive him to distraction. He had asked his father who Estel's parents had been, but he had only told him that his father had been a good friend of his. His father had said it in the kind of voice that discouraged any further questions, and he found that he was reluctant to breach the subject with Estel, who, while friendly and gregarious enough, was rather closed-mouthed when matters touched his family.

There was simply something familiar about him, but he couldn't even place his finger on what "It" was. It was quite vexing, really, and if he didn't want to go insane he would have to find out what it was or…

The shadows in the distance moved, but it was inside of the palisade while the strip of land just beneath the embrasure was empty and silent. A second later he saw that there was indeed no cause for alarm; the movement had been Limhith, who had turned from his own contemplation of the slope in front of him when he had seen him approach. Halbarad once again felt a small stab of envy; he was walking as quietly as he could, the tip of his spear had been covered with a mixture of fat and ash to prevent it from gleaming traitorously, he was in the deep shadow that two large trees cast, and still Limhith had seen him long before he had spotted him.

"_Aurë entuluva!_" he said quickly, before the older ranger could feel the need to reach for his ownspear.

"I know, Halbarad, lad." There was a smile in the older man's voice. "Amusing man, our commander, isn't he?"

"Quite," Halbarad agreed, stepping closer. There was no fire or torch burning tonight, nothing to destroy their night vision, and so he had no trouble seeing the amusement dancing over Limhith's bearded face. "Naurdholen informed me earlier that it is malice, though."

"Not too far off, that theory," Limhith said amiably. "Has there been any activity on your side?"

"None." Halbarad shook his head. "Should there have been?"

Limhith raised an eyebrow at him, and Halbarad was glad that the darkness hid the hot blush spreading over his face. He hadn't meant that quite in the way ithad sounded.

"The commander is rarely wrong about such matters," the older ranger told him, his tone of voice deceptively mild. "He'll have had a reason to set up a guard."

"Yes, of course," Halbarad agreed quickly.

Limhith's eyes moved over the right for a moment before they returned to Halbarad's face, his teeth gleaming white amidst the shadows that hid his face.  
"And since you were born under a lucky star, lad, you have the chance to ask the commander yourself."

'Of all the things that could happen…' Halbarad thought as he automatically came to attention. A few moments later, he, too, could spot what Limhith had already seen, namely a dark shape making its way towards them. It took several more seconds to assemble into the figure of their commander, and not for the fist time Halbarad asked himself if Limhith was part elf.

Probably not, though, not with that beard.

"Sir," the object of his deliberations said with a curt nod. Halbarad, who was half-tempted to demand the password from his superior, smothered the urge and copied the older ranger.

"Limhith. Halbarad." The commander nodded at them, grey cloak streaming after him like a banner as he walked up to them. "Report."

"Everything is quiet, sir," Limhith replied.

"In the east as well." Halbarad nodded. "I spoke to Naurdholen a few moments ago; there is no activity on the road either."

"They would be quite stupid to use the road, now wouldn't they?" Commander Cemendur couldn't convey condescending disbelief quite as well as his father, but thiswas quite close, Halbarad decided. "I hope you haven't been standing at your assigned positions all the time?" the commander went on. "It would have been a dead giveaway for anybody watching."

Halbarad very deliberately didn't look at Limhith, but the other ranger's irritation was easy to sense. Of course they hadn't been standing in front of the weak spots like a few signposts saying "Attack here, please!", how stupid did the commander think them to be? On second thought, Halbarad thought darkly, he didn't really want to know.

"No, sir," Limhith, older by a decade and a half and so much more experienced in dealing with ill-tempered superiors, replied placidly.

"Good."

It was all Commander Cemendur said. Halbarad understood that only too well. It was clear that their superior was displeased about something (even though, since he knew the commander quite well due to his friendship with his father, he thought that there was something more to it than just ill humour), but equally clear that Limhith didn't intend to give him any excuse for being displeased with _them_. What else _could_ the other ranger say?

"I will check up on Naurdholen, then," the commander said. "Your shift will be over in two hours. There will be breakfast waiting for you afterwards at my house, or so my wife tells me, so don't be late."

Halbarad asked himself who would voluntarily be late for that. Commander Cemendur's wife was not only very pretty, she was also a very good cook.

"Yes, sir," he said for the both of them. Even in the short time that he had spent with the company he had learned that simple, monosyllabic answers were always the best option when dealing with an irritated commander.

For a second, it looked as if the commander was going to say "Good" in that particular tone of voice again that clearly stated that nothing was indeed anywhere near good. Before he could, however, all of them stopped almost in mid-motion, looking quite a lot like puppets whose strings had just been cut. It took Halbarad a moment to realise what had caught his attention: A sound that had floated towards them on the wind, a soft, almost inaudible sound that was roughly comparative to someone dragging a shovel over a hard, stony surface.

As one man, the three of them turned around and covered the distancebetween them and the ramparts at a run. Halbarad manoeuvred himself as close to the nearest embrasure as he could, carefully peering through the narrow opening between the two wooden stakes without exposing himself to possible enemy fire. There was … nothing to see.

Halbarad blinked. He hadn't really expected to see an orc army camped on their doorstep – right at this moment, he had been torn between a particularly brave woodland creature and a dwarf dragging his pick-axe who had got lost on his way to his mine –, but nothing … well, that simply wasn't right. He may have been young, and he may have been inexperienced, but he was no moron, and only a moron ignored his instincts when they screamed at him like this.

"What…?" he began.

"Quiet," the commander hissed at him. "Limhith!"

The other ranger moved without a word, hurrying down the palisade eastwards, towards Halbarad's original position. Halbarad, confused and with his heart pounding in his chest, looked after the older man for a moment, not quite knowing what to do. He turned around to his superior, already opening his mouth to ask for orders, when he felt himself go slack with pure, unadulterated shock, eyes wide.

"Elbereth's stars above."

The three words were spoken very calmly, and Halbarad couldn't for the life of him say if he had said them or if it had been Commander Cemendur. In the end it didn't matter, really, since those were the only appropriate words for finding yourself face to face with a group of orcs.

Halbarad didn't understand what was going on. He didn't understand how the orcs could have circumvented all the spots they had been watching – all the _weak_ spots, for Manwë's sake –, how they could have circumvented Naurdholen, and, most importantly, how they could have managed to make their way into the village without alerting anyone to their presence. It didn't matter, after all, not really. Inexperienced as he might have been, he knew very well what he should do when quite literally coming face to face with orcs.

_'Yell, lad. Yell as loudly as you can.'_

He didn't really know who had told him that, couldn't remember, but he was more than willing to put the advice into practice, warrior's pride be damned. Before he could open his mouth to yell, though, a crudely carved arrow made him throw himself to the ground. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see that the commander had done the same. More arrows whistled over their heads, and Halbarad pressed himself against the wooden palisade wall as he drew his sword, giving the weapon an almost disdainful look. Much good would it do him, pinned down as he was.

Someone did yell, then, but it wasn't a scream of alarm and rather a cry of pain. Without turning around – something that he was really planning to avoid since it would only end in him getting himself stuck full of arrows – Halbarad knew that it had been Limhith, who must have turned back once he had realised what was going on. Halbarad ducked as another projectile almost took one of his eyes out and gave the technically impossible scene in front of him an assessing look, trying very hard not to panic.

There were at least half a dozen orcs nearing their position. More seemed to emerge from the darkness by the second, curiously uninterested in the village where the first lights were now being lit in face of all this ruckus and very definitely and worryingly interested in them. They seemed to have found a way in somewhere between Naurdholen's and Limhith's posts, which was actually good. This way, Naurdholen might still be alive.

To his right, Commander Cemendur was pinned down. Under any other circumstances it would have looked at least strange seeing a tall man like him huddled behind a ridiculously small boulder. Now, however, Halbarad had other things to worry about. They were pinned down. There were orcs within the walls; Valar, he thought as the image of a smiling, dark-haired boy he had played with yesterday flashed before his eyes, there were dozens of women and children in the village! Limhith was either wounded or dead, Eru knew what had happened to Naurdholen, and they … they were, basically, doomed.

The commander seemed to come to the same conclusion. With a quick look at the advancing orcs – not one of them was heading towards the village, Halbarad noted with profound surprise –, the older man turned to him, one hand closed around his sword and the other around the shaft of Halbarad's abandoned spear.

"Halbarad!"

"Sir!"

"On my signal, run as fast as you can! Warn the others!"

"Unless they're deaf, they know what is going on!" Halbarad shouted back, cringing back against the palisade as a knife – not a lot of orcs used throwing knives, he noted absently – came far too close for comfort.

"That is an order, boy!" The other ranger shouted back. "I will not return to Daervagor with your body, so you'd better do what I say!"

Halbarad didn't get the chance to answer, since he was suddenly pulled up and to his feet from behind by the back of his cloak. The sudden deprivation of oxygen coupled with the fact that there was nothing but the solid wall of the palisade at his back resulted in him being profoundly confused for several moments, before he realised that he wasn't being strangled from behind – he was being strangled from above. While the two of them had been distracted by the orcs inching closer, another part of the horde had snuck up on them from behind and scaled the palisade.

Orcs could climb quite well, Eru damn their black hearts.

The young ranger tried to twist around, tried to reach the one choking the life out of him, but the creature simply intensified its grip, sharp nails digging into the soft skin of his neck. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes that grew bigger by the second, and Halbarad felt how his right hand opened on its own account and his sword dropped to the ground. The rest of the orcs was upon them now, most of them quite literally throwing themselves at the commander who disappeared under a mass of orc bodies.

Halbarad was still struggling weakly despite the fact that he could no longer hear anything but the pounding of his own heart, which finally seemed to annoy his captors. Pointed claws raking through his hair, a hand took hold of his head and slammed it backwards, into the hardened wood of the palisade.

The impact achieved what the lack of air had not. Halbarad's eyes briefly slid over the far-off horizon that shimmered pink with the first light of the new day before they rolled up into his head.

As the darkness reared up to swallow him, he decided that, as last sights went, this one hadn't been too bad.

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TBC...**

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_athelas (Sindarin) - also called Kingsfoil. A healing herb  
harucholor (S.) - 'wound-closer', a healing herb  
Dam Morgoth! (S.) - Morgoth's hammer!  
muindor (nín) (S.) - (my) brother (by birth, not association)  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
A elenath Elbereth! (S.) - By Elbereth's stars!  
gwanur (S.) - (twin) brother  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
Aurë entuluva! (Quenya) - "Day shall come again!" It is what Húrin reportedly cried when it became clear that the Fifth Battle was lost. (The Silmarillion, Ch. 20) So ... yes, Cemendur DOES have a sense of humour. Let's see how long that lasts._

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A/N II:**

**There seems to be no record of how a "normal" miraculous healing went. Go figure. •g• Don't get me wrong; we do have descriptions of Aragorn healing people (most of them in RotK, Ch. 8: The Houses of Healing). But what is described there is how he heals them from the Black Breath, which is a special kind of Nazgûl-induced coma (Gods, any real purist must be sharpening their knives at that kind of simplified description •winces•). It is expressly stated that he not only healed those afflicted by the Black Breath, but also "normal injuries": "At the doors of the Houses many were already gathered to see Aragorn (...) men came and prayed that he would heal their kinsmen or their friends whose lives were in peril through hurt or wound, or who lay under the Black Shadow." I therefore adapted the described healing process (which Aragorn used to heal Faramir, Éowyn and Merry) for my purposes, and hope that you (and Tolkien) will forgive me for making certain assumptions and changes. I left out the whole "calling back" part - it would make little sense if the patient wasn't "lost" like he/she would be when afflicted by the Black Breath. The essentials, however (including the draining effects, which are quite nicely described in Ch. 8 and which I just assumed were something you had to get used to over time), are the same.**

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So, the whole issue of the healing left aside, Halbarad is in a wee bit of trouble. Dear oh dear, it HAS to be genetic, doesn't it? •evil smile• So, let's just assume that, in the next chapter, Daervagor and Company are not going to be overly happy. Some more suspicions are cast in all directions (Gosh, there's really a lot of that, isn't there?), and our favourite half-R****e****hír ("Rohirrim" is, strictly speaking, ****the collective ****plural**** (meaning the people of Rohan as ... well, a people) ****and not the normal one, isn't it? Then it really is "R****e****hír"****. Yes, I am feeling geeky today. •g•****) make another appearance, about which Hírgaer in particular is quite unhappy. Oh, and there's doom, gloom, death and a little more of the bad guy who's, for once, ****happy with ****what Skagrosh did. Who'd have thought. •g• As always, reviews are loved, appreciated and petted extensively. No, I'm not kidding. •g• So, review? Yes, please!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**My apologies to Wulfgarfang, KyLaa, Tatsumaki-sama and Rainy for not including them in the big group mail-review response thingy. Since I usually reply to reviews via one big email, I need a valid email address. So, if you would like to be included, remember to either have an address on your profile page or to leave it in the anonymous review. And no, typing it in the main body DOES NOT work. You have to put it into the designated space. Don't blame me, blame FF-net. They're being unreasonable. •grimaces•**


	22. Matched In Conflict

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**I made it! Whee! •chagrined• I'm sorry about that. It's just that it's become exceedingly rare that I've managed to update on time, without having to worry about furious emails saying "Get a move on, woman!". It's a nice change. It also makes me gleeful. So: Lo and behold, here is chapter 22 which I promised you before my departure to Italy! •cheering•**

**Thank you, thank you. Anyway, as I said, I'm off to Rome the day after tomorrow. I am more or less ready, having spent far too much money on sensible clothes and shoes, and now I only hope that the weather will be nice. Or at least nicer than here, which (•pointed look at the grey sky•) shouldn't be all that hard. So, I'll be gone till the 31st of March, or April 1st, I really can't remember, so don't expect a new chapter until mid-April. I won't be taking my laptop with me (I doubt we'll even have internet access where we're staying), and even when I get back, I still have to write a new chapter. I'm sorry, but it's going to take a while.**

**Still, to make the wait a little more bearable, I wrote an extra-long chapter, or rather it wrote itself while I yelled at it to shut up. It didn't, of course, which is the main reason why we have a lot of conversations. Legolas wakes up and discovers that, if left to his own devices, Aragorn is prone to doing incredibly dangerous and/or reckless things and promptly does one of his own, the Messenger of Doom© arrives with not-so-good news, Daervagor is as frantic as a self-contained, stoic ranger can be, Hírgaer gets into a fight, and Skagrosh is happy. Then he's very happy, then confused, and finally quite unhappy. Being an orc minion is no picnic, let me tell you. •evil grin•**

**Enjoy and review, please!**

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Chapter 22

Legolas awoke slowly and quite reluctantly, as if coming out of a pleasant, peaceful dream. It was rather surprising, especially considering that he was rather sure that he had not been dreaming. These things happened to him quite a lot, however, so he was not overly surprised about it.

What he was sure about was that there had been some sort of … light, which was even stranger. It had been dark in the cave, hadn't it? Yes, that was right. He was admittedly not completely sure what had happened over the … say, past two to three months (or that was what it felt like) … but that caves were generally dark, that he _did_ know. He also had the feeling that he had been very warm lately, as if he had just come out of a hot bath and was still feeling the after-effects. Or had he been lazing about in the sun lately and had somehow not noticed it?

Considering the kinds of things that had been happening to him these past few years, it wouldn't surprise him if his body had decided that he needed some time off and just laid down in the sun without notifying his brain first. And if he was completely honest, he didn't think that he could blame it. He hadn't really been treating it very well lately, and he wouldn't have been surprised if it finally decided that enough was enough.

But he actually could think, at least more or less, so that had to mean that he was awake. He wasn't completely sure about it, of course, but it sounded like a reasonable assumption.

He spent several minutes staring at something beige that fluttered slightly from side to side, and several more contemplating the question just when he had opened his eyes. He really couldn't come up with an answer, and so he turned his head to the side. It took quite a lot of time, especially considering that his neck hurt at even the slightest movement. He decided to ignore the pain as best as he was able and came quite literally face to face with a blurry blob.

Under any other circumstances, this would have alarmed him. Well, maybe not under _any _circumstances, he considered. There were things like wargs trying to tear him to pieces or being chased by a group of irate healers that would have caused everything else to pale in comparison, even blurry blobs appearing out of nowhere.

"Now, this is a pleasant surprise," said the blurry blob. "Are you going to stay conscious? If not, I will not even bother calling Estel and Elladan. They need their rest, too."

Legolas, who was not used to blobs of any kind speaking to him, frowned. He was not entirely sure about it, but he thought that he shouldn't be having this kind of conversation. While it felt vaguely familiar, it also felt like something that was incompatible with his pride.

Said pride was being further diminished by the fact that his outrageous words demanding answers and un-blobbing from the being in front of him – really, he thought, just who wouldn't feel ridiculous talking to a fuzzy form without defined edges? – didn't really come out the way they were supposed to. Actually, he admitted to himself, they didn't really come out at all. All he could manage was a cross between a croak and a groan that he was fully prepared to deny having uttered.

The blob chuckled in a way that sounded vaguely worried, but also amused and thoroughly evil, therefore answering all questions as to its identity. Only a son of Elrond could sound that evil and malicious while also sounding worried about you. It was a combination Legolas had wondered about many times in the past, and he had finally come to the conclusion that they actually meant both sentiments. It was yet another thing he didn't understand and which he blamed on them being Noldor.

"Here," the blob that had to be Elrohir said, "Let me help you."

Legolas was a proud elf but no idiot and was fully prepared to allow himself to be helped when it was necessary, but he was still surprised when the rim of a cup was placed at his lips. A strong hand lifted his head, making it throb slightly, but that pain was a small price to pay for the wonderful feeling of cold and, most importantly, _wet_ water running down his parched throat. He closed his eyes to savour the experience, and when he opened them again some moments later, he found that the blob had sharpened and come into focus, revealing the smiling face of Elrohir. There was something else on the twin's face, something darker and more closed-off, but he was too weak to think about it any longer than necessary.

"It is good to see you awake, _mellon nín_," Elrohir said, the tension in his shoulders easing visibly. "We were afraid that you had hit your head harder than we originally thought."

Legolas, who had been gathering his strength for some minutes now, managed to bring out a perfectly understandable "Gah". If there hadn't been a son of Elrond sitting across from him – one of the beings most guaranteed to tease him for decades for this –, he would have been proud of his eloquent and succinct comment.

"Quite," Elrohir said and nodded. The cup of water he must have put down earlier suddenly re-appeared in his hand, and Legolas could only just stop himself from licking his lips in anticipation. "Just a little more, then. You know that you can't have too much water just now; you will make yourself sick."

Legolas would have rather made himself sick than died of thirst, but Elrohir was a healer and therefore automatically impervious to what his patients actually wanted. The water helped, though, and so he was finally able to speak more or less understandably once Elrohir had propped him up against his pillows, a slightly worried frown marring his forehead.

"Elrohir?"

Very well, Legolas admitted to himself, it hadn't been the most eloquent (or intelligent) thing to say, a realisation that was mirrored by the look on the twin's face. Now that the world had come back into focus and he could think more clearly, however, he found that the confusion that filled him was not entirely due to his physical condition. He might actually be hurt quite badly – just how and why he could not remember –, but he honestly had no idea what was going on.

"Yes, Legolas." Elrohir smiled, that look of patented, healerly patience on his face that would need hours to show the first cracks. Legolas knew. He had witnessed the process once, and the end result had not been a pretty sight. "It is me. You are safe, do not worry. If you actually allow yourself to rest for a while, you will be just fine."

Legolas needed some moments to process that. It was nice and very reassuring to hear, of course, but it also brought several questions back into sharper focus, for example the question of just what had happened to him so that he needed to rest and heal, or where he was. Another question was who had been with him when "it" had happened to him – he was simply never lucky enough to get into trouble on his own. The tendency to drag unsuspecting, innocent people down into certain doom and danger with him was another thing he blamed on his friendship with Aragorn.

Aragorn. That was it. If something had happened to him – something that made him feel as if a troll had sat down on him –, something at least as painful and terrible must have happened to the ranger.

"Estel?" he asked, his hurting brain choosing to use the Elvish name just in time. "Where…?"

"He is all right," Elrohir said hurriedly. Judging by the small frown on his face, however, Aragorn was anything but fine. Then again, Legolas thought darkly, it might also be that Aragorn was indeed fine but someone else wasn't. "He should be awake by now. He will come by later, when Elladan has managed to get some food down into him."

Legolas accepted the answer – if one of the twins said that Aragorn was all right, he usually really was –, and turned his addled brain to figuring out just what Elrohir was not telling him. There was probably a lot, but not all that much that mattered right now. Elrohir couldn't be wounded, since he was sitting in front of him and looked quite chipper, if he might say so, just as he always did when he got the chance to don his mighty-and-wise-healer persona. If Elladan had been injured, Elrohir would have been distracted, if not frantic. Aragorn was apparently more or less in one piece, which of course meant that…

Oh, Valar. Celylith.

His memory chose this moment to break free and filled his mind with images in a rush that must have been almost audible. There were the twisted, gleeful faces of orcs staring down at him, and coarse, cruel laughter filled his ears as the blood in front of his eyes spread and spread until it filled his entire vision.

"By Varda's stars," he whispered brokenly. "No. Celylith."

Elrohir was saying something, his voice serious and insistent, but Legolas hardly heard him. The only sound he could hear was the rushing, pumping sound of his own heart that drowned out all other sounds and noises until it was one long, uninterrupted sound. Celylith would be dead. Celylith _had_ to be dead. He might be one step from panic and despair, but he was no fool, nor had he been a fool when he had last seen his friend. There were things even an elf did not recover from, and among them were severe burns coupled with deep stab wounds. No one could have survived that for long, not even Celylith, who was so stubborn that he made the average troll positively easy-going in comparison.

He could not do this, he said to himself, feeling quite calm and composed. Once before he had thought that Celylith was dead, killed by an arrow on a snowy mountainside, and it had very nearly killed him. He knew that, this time, it would. He had seen too much blood and death and pain to be able to bear this, to be able to bear his oldest friend's death. The knowledge that Celylith would have died in torment and agony and in the hands of their enemies only served to make everything even worse.

Someone would have to tell his father, Legolas thought, shocked to the core. No,_ he_ would have to tell his father. He would have to return to Mirkwood and tell Lord Celythramir that his only son was dead, dead because he, Legolas, had been too blind to read the signs, or rather too blind to see an orc ambush that even a first-year recruit would have had no trouble detecting.

"Legolas!" There was a sudden pressure on his left shoulder, sending a stab of curiously numb pain through the left side of his body, and Legolas looked up, straight into the sympathetic eyes of Elrohir. "Listen to me!"

What did it matter, the wood-elf asked himself unwillingly. Celylith was dead, and Elrohir wanted him to listen to him?

"He is not dead, Legolas," Elrohir said slowly and very clearly. "He is right here. Look!"

Legolas was too stunned to do anything but gape at the twin with wide eyes, and so Elrohir reached out and gently turned his head to the right. No more than five feet away there was another bedroll, this one a dark green, and on it lay the still but very alive body of his friend. Half of his face was covered with a pristine, white bandage that made what was visible of his face look pale and washed-out, but the even, slow rhythm of his breathing was visible even despite the numerous blankets that were piled on top of his still form.

The terrible, gut-wrenching tension drained out of him, leaving him weak and shaking and utterly unable to support himself. He sank back into the pillows at his back, his eyes automatically closing in concentration as he fought not to lose consciousness.

"Valar," he breathed softly, trying to raise his right hand to his face and stopping when a sharp pain went through his hand and shoulder. "Valar."

"It's all right," Elrohir's soft voice tried to soothe him. "He will be fine, Legolas. Both of you will be fine. We found you just in time."

Legolas needed several moments until the suffocating fear inside of him had subsided enough for him to open his eyes again, and several more until the weakness and nausea had lessened so that he could chance speaking.

"How can he be all right?" he asked hoarsely, looking at Elrohir with haunted eyes. "How can either of us be all right? You did not see what they did to him … to his face…"

"I did." Elrohir's voice was just as serious and quiet. "I did see what they did to him, and to you. Neither of you will just shake this off, Legolas, I will not lie to you. But you will use a bow again, and, with time, Celylith will make eyes at that artist whom he is not interested in at all. Trust me."

Legolas, who did trust him, looked openly doubtful for a moment. He knew how great the twins' and Aragorn's healing skills were – had been on the receiving end of them more times than he could count, really –, but he also knew how badly they had been injured. He gave the motionless form of his sleeping friend a quick look, but he could not see more than the first time, only that he noticed what had to be a bulky bandage wrapped around Celylith's right thigh. Doing a quick inventory of his own injuries, he decided that he was feeling bruised all over – not a surprise, that –, and that his left side and right shoulder hurt just like his right hand, but it was a far cry from the all-encompassing agony that had throbbed through him the last time he had been awake. Fighting a sudden stab of panic, he raised his right hand the tiniest bit and saw that a thick white bandage tightly encased the limb all the way up to the middle of his forearm.

"I … this is impossible," he said, feeling a right fool to tempt fate like this. "I do not understand this. I feel like a small mountain had fallen on top of me, yes, but I know I should be feeling as if I had been hit by the entirety of the Hithaeglir. And Celylith…"

He trailed off, swallowing hard, and couldn't help but look at his friend again. He fixedly stared at the slow rise and fall of the other's chest, and a feeling of such grateful joy spread through him that he had to close his eyes to compose himself.

"Do not misunderstand me," he went on. "I am thankful to you and your brothers, I am, more than you could possibly fathom, but Celylith should be dead."

"Not necessarily," Elrohir muttered, refusing to meet his eyes. "There is no way of knowing if he would have died. He is stubborn and strong. He might very well have pulled through without much help."

"Do not be a fool, Elrohir," Legolas admonished him, narrowing his eyes in a mixture of annoyance and accusation. There was something Elrohir was not telling him, and it was more than just what he thought about the Wood-elves of Mirkwood. That, he thought wryly, was an open secret at best anyway. "More, do not treat me like one. I am not a healer, but I do know the limits of an elven body. Celylith should have died, and I should have lost the use of my hand. I am very, very thankful that that is not the case, of course, but it does not change the facts."

"Maybe," Elrohir admitted, half-rising to grab a small satchel that sat on a foldable wooden chair next to him. "We can talk about this once I have had a look at you. Do you feel nauseous or dizzy or do you have trouble concentrating?"

"No," Legolas replied, scowling at him. "And no, we will not put this off until after you have stealthily crammed a sleeping potion down my throat. What happened?"

"That is, actually, a question we had hoped you could answer," the other elf said, his fingers skimming over the bandage covering the side of his head. Even the light touch was painful, but Legolas refused to let himself be distracted by it. "It looks as if your hard wood-elven head prevented you from cracking your skull open like an overripe melon, which is not entirely surprising, of course. Let me have a look at your side."

Legolas, who was well aware of the fact that he had little choice in the matter, allowed the twin to push him back and start unwinding the long strip of cloth that was wrapped around his torso.

"You will not weasel your way out of this, Elrohir. What – happened?"

Elrohir, who could stall for time with the best of them, spent an unusually long time staring at the neat row of stitches that kept the edges of the wound closed. Legolas, who had seen too much of his skin sewn together like an embroidered cushion already, gave his side only the most cursory glance before he fixed his eyes on the ceiling of the tent and did his best to ignore the pain that even the most cursory touch brought.

"When we found you, you were in quite a bad shape," Elrohir finally said quietly while he gently applied some more rather cold ointment to the wound. "Elladan, Estel and I did what we could, but … well, it is probable that Celylith wouldn't have survived the ride back to the camp. You would have, certainly, but your hand … there was nothing we could do. The burns were too extensive and too deep. You would almost certainly have lost use of it, at least partly."

"I … see," Legolas said, sucking in a deep breath when Elrohir started re-bandaging his wound. "So what happened?"

"You were healed, or at least healed enough to make it back here without worsening your condition," Elrohir said curtly, tying off the end of the bandage. "That was over twelve hours ago. It is noon."

Legolas might not have been educated by Lord Erestor, but he could still spot someone talking circles around him, especially when that someone did it as gracelessly as Elrohir. That actually quite surprised him, really, since Elrohir_ was_ the grandson of Lady Galadriel.

"We lost no one during the rescue," Elrohir went on, fingers slowly moving over the still swollen joint of his shoulder, something that made bright spots of pain explode across Legolas' vision. "Everybody made it back safely, even though we found no tracks and no leads as to where the rest of the horde is hiding. The captain was less than pleased with Haldar for leaving without permission, but he has calmed down by now. Haldar's still hiding from him, though, or so I hear."

The pain in his shoulder was quite a lot worse than he had thought possible, and so Legolas momentarily allowed himself to be distracted.  
"The captain was not present?"

"Not precisely, no," the twin said, shaking his head. "Your hand was just re-bandaged a little over two hours ago; I believe we should let it be for the moment. Besides, changing the bandages will be tremendously painful, and I believe we should give you something to dull the pain first. And to answer your question," he went on, apparently having noticed Legolas' impatient look, "Daervagor arrived here only after Haldar, Estel and the others had left. He was not pleased about having been left behind."

"I can imagine," Legolas muttered, before his head came up and he gave the other elf a dark look full of censure. "Do not try to distract me! I have some questions concerning how you found us, but right now I wish to know how you managed to heal us!"

Elrohir sighed deeply and sat back, eyeing the other elf with a mixture of long-suffering annoyance and fondness.  
"You are stubborn, did you know that?"

"That question might have come up once or twice over the years, yes," Legolas said, nodding his head. "What is it you are not telling me, Elrohir? What did you do?"

"I did not do anything, Legolas, and neither did Elladan," Elrohir replied, tiredly massaging the bridge of his nose. "Estel did."

Legolas, who thought he had considered every possibility, realised that he must have left out one or two.  
"Estel?"

"Yes," Elrohir confirmed. "We told him it was dangerous, of course, but he would not listen."

Legolas hardly heard the words as he tried to make sense of what the other had said. He knew that Estel was a good healer, an excellent one, even, more skilled than many of the master healers he knew, but this … this was incomprehensible.

"I do not understand," he told Elrohir. "How could he…?"

Elrohir looked positively mournful, his eyes dark and worried.  
"_I mát i arano nat i mát envinyantaro._"

For a second, Legolas could only stare at him while he worked to comprehend the softly spoken Quenya words. His tutors had not exactly put a marked emphasis on the history of Gondor and Arnor, but he was far from ignorant, and it took only a few seconds for everything to fall into place.

"Eru," he said, feeling how the blood drained from his face. "Please tell me that he didn't."

"Wish that I could, _mellon nín_," Elrohir said with a small, rather wobbly smile. "Wish that I could."

"I ... why did nobody stop him?" Legolas asked, his thoughts whirling. "I mean, with that mysterious person from his dreams taken into account, it was an incredibly stupid ... is he all right?" he added, panic suddenly dancing over his features. "Did he harm himself?"

"He is exhausted, but I believe it is no more than that," Elrohir told him. "And I know it was a stupid idea. I told him so. Elladan told him so. He was less than impressed."

"He would have been, wouldn't he?" Legolas muttered unhappily, watching while Elrohir put away his healing utensils. The twin moved slowly and deliberately, but judging by the expression on his face, he was hardly aware of what he was doing. "Elrohir, this was a really, really bad idea."

"Valar, I know!" Elrohir repeated, clearly annoyed now. There was worry mixed with the anger, though, and so Legolas decided to forgive him. Besides, he was in too much pain and too exhausted not to. "I know that! Elladan and I tried to talk him out of it, but he would hear none of it! He would rather have risked exposure than the possibility of losing the two of you! If you wish to fault anybody for that, fault him!"

"Not something I would recommend, to be honest," a voice behind them commented. "But I would do it again. You know I would."

At first, Legolas was too relieved to see his human friend alive and, relatively speaking, well to actually go ahead and fault him for anything. He could only smile at the ranger standing in the entrance of the tent, flanked by Elladan who looked just about ready to spring forward and catch him if necessary. Legolas narrowed his eyes at the young man. Celylith had not been the only one to escape their latest predicament in less than perfect health, then.

"Did you tear your stitches?" he asked, surveying the very erect form of his friend. Aragorn held himself far too stiffly to be truly well. The fact that Elladan was eyeing him like a hawk would watch a hatchling about to make its first attempt at flying only strengthened that conviction. "Again?"

"When else did I ever tear my stitches?" Aragorn asked, stepping over the threshold and holding back the tent flap to let his brother enter the tent as well. "It is good to see you, _mellon nín_."

"Let me think about that," Legolas said, frowning with fake concentration. "What about that one time in Esgaroth, or the one in Baredlen, or when we..."

"Please, don't," Elladan interrupted him, making a face at his younger brother's back. "If you start with that list now, we won't be done by tomorrow morning. Or evening, for that matter."

"Very funny," Aragorn told them, but he didn't seem to be truly vexed. "It wasn't that many times, and you know it." He took a step closer, looking much like Elrohir had just a few minutes ago. "How are you feeling, Legolas?"

"Well enough," Legolas answered, doing his best to hold onto his anger in face of the young man's honest concern. "It appears that I have to thank you, Estel, for saving Celylith's life – and my hand."

"You have to do nothing." Aragorn's tone was calm and very uncompromising. "You do not owe me anything, and I did nothing I wouldn't gladly give you any time you need it."

"I know that," Legolas admitted before he turned to the twins, who were looking rather as if they were torn between wanting to hear every word and a sudden urge to vacate the surroundings, immediately. "I thank you, too, Elladan, for all that you have done. I will never be able to repay you."

"It wasn't us, Legolas," Elladan told him. "I can claim no thanks or credit. But I am glad to see you alive and well, and Celylith as well."

"Still," Legolas insisted with an unconcerned gesture that would have made his father proud. "I thank you. And I'd thank you more if you'd leave us alone for a few moments."

The twins shared a quick look that looked rather like relief, and Elladan stepped up to his brother and offered him a hand up.  
"Let's leave them to it, then."

"That sounds like an excellent idea," Elrohir said readily, allowing his brother to pull him to his feet. He bit back a pained hiss as his injured ankle protested against the weight put on it, and Legolas raised an eyebrow at him.

"What happened to you? Are you all right?"

"I am fine," Elrohir said immediately, slapping Elladan's hand away as the older twin tried to steady him. "I merely twisted an ankle."

"You did what?" Legolas asked, blinking in surprise. "How did you do that?"

"I valiantly fought a score of orcs."

"No, he didn't." Elladan snorted. "He fell off his horse."

"I did not!"

"He did," Elladan said curtly. "He was too busy laughing about me having been stung by a wasp to be paying his surroundings the attention they were due. He overlooked a low-hanging branch, got smacked right into his laughing face in an act of poetical justice, and fell off his horse. The poor beast was at least as startled by it as he, I would say. I think she's hiding somewhere in shame."

"'He' is right here," Elrohir said testily. "And she is not. She is hiding from Rashwe, which, considering that he is a demon-horse, is a very normal reaction."

"For the last time, I have no idea why all of you keep insisting that Rashwe is anything but a nice, friendly horse," Legolas said, shaking his head mournfully. "Still, I am glad to see that you survived such a ... terrible incident."

"Remind me again why I just spent the past fifteen minutes re-bandaging your wounds and bathing your fevered brow?"

"I have a fever?" Legolas asked.

"Not as such, no. It is a figure of speech." Elrohir shook his head. "Your temperature is slightly elevated, but that is to be expected, considering your injuries."

"And we will be leaving now," Elladan interrupted him, tugging at his arm. "I think you have something to discuss."

"Indeed," Legolas said solemnly with a dark look at Aragorn. "We do."

Aragorn, who stepped to the side to let his brothers pass, was not nearly as understanding. The _look _he gave the two departing elves would have been enough to set fire to a snow-troll.

"Traitors," he hissed at them.

"It's justice, that's what it is," Elladan told him calmly, pushing the tent flap aside. "We told you what we think about what you did. Perhaps Legolas here will be able to talk some sense into you."

"I heard what you said," Aragorn said quietly.

"Yes, but you did not listen," the older twin said with something that was not nearly nonchalant enough to be a shrug. "There is a difference, you know."

The tent flap fell back into place behind the twins, and for a few moments it was silent. Aragorn was doing his very best to look unconcerned, but fell short of that goal by several miles at least. Legolas, who had inwardly been working on an appropriate speech for several minutes, finally acknowledged the fact that the man was no more likely going to speak than an orc was likely not to want to kill you.

Orcs were predictable like that, and so was Aragorn. No connexion whatsoever intended, of course.

"Why did you do it?" he finally asked with a small sigh.

"Because I could," Aragorn answered simply, collapsing into a less-than-graceful crouch next to him. "Because I was desperate, and did not know what else to do. And because the alternative was unacceptable."

"You realise what you have done?"

"I saved Celylith's life," the man said. "That is what I did, and what I would gladly do again."

"And I am grateful for that, Estel, you know I am," Legolas said with another look at the other elf's motionless body. "I don't know what I would have done. I will never be able to repay you for what you have done for him."

"You don't have to," Aragorn told him. "You know that."

"It doesn't change the facts," Legolas retorted. "And it also doesn't change the fact that you took a great risk upon you, Estel. Do I really have to point out the fact that you might have exposed yourself to whomever you have been seeing in your dreams?"

"No, you need _not _point that out," the young man said somewhat testily. "I am aware of that fact, which, as I may point out, has been repeated to me quite a lot of times."

"But you did not _listen_!" Legolas said, clinging to the anger that had awoken inside of him amidst all that worry and still not completely banished panic. "Estel, have you ever considered what this might do to him? Or me, for that matter?"

Aragorn only looked at him, and so he continued.

"This is all my fault to begin with, do you not understand?" Legolas asked, instinctively raising his right hand to rub the bridge of his nose and freezing at the sudden pain that shot up all the way to his shoulder and straight into his head. "If I hadn't insisted on checking out that thrice-damned cave, none of this would have happened."

"Anybody would have done the same, Legolas," Aragorn told him. "Valar, _I _would have done the same! That was the whole purpose of your presence there – to check out anything that might give the orcs shelter. You did your duty."

"Aye, and I did it badly." Legolas shook his head disdainfully. "I nearly got my oldest friend killed. How do you imagine I will feel if it turns out that you killed yourself for us?"

"I did not kill myself for you," Aragorn retorted firmly. "You are acting as if I openly declared myself to Sauron! I merely healed you!"

"There is no merely involved, Estel," Legolas said patiently. "I cannot believe that _I _am the one telling you this! You know far more about this than me, you _know _that I am right. There is no telling what the mysterious figure from your dreams gleaned from what you did. If he puts two and two together, he will not need any more time to discover the identity of the one he seeks. He will have his answer, and you will be the one who handed it to him."

It was clear that the only thing stopping the man from yelling was the fact that Legolas was still quite badly injured. That, or the fact that he really didn't want to wake Celylith. Thinking about it now and considering the _ looks_ Aragorn was shooting him, Legolas opted for the latter.

"I haven't handed anything to anybody," Aragorn said, sounding quite a lot like a petulant child who was just one step away from stomping his feet. "We do not even know what it is 'he' wants. I did what I had to do."

"But how do you know that?" Legolas retorted. "How can you know that he, whoever _he_ is, did not notice what you were doing?"

"I do not believe so."

"This is your life we are talking about, Estel," Legolas said. "'I do not believe so' is awfully vague, wouldn't you agree?"

"I have nothing more to offer you, Legolas," the man answered. "I cannot describe what happened. I do not even think I could find the words if I thought about it for months, but I – do not – think so. I think I would have noticed his presence."

"You think."

"Yes, Legolas, I _think_," Aragorn retorted, glaring at the elf. "I barely knew what I was doing last night. I still don't. It was all … instinct. I wouldn't know if something was wrong because I have never done something like this before!"

"My point exactly," Legolas said succinctly. "I just don't feel comfortable with you risking your life in such a way, Estel."

Aragorn's look of annoyance gave way to a smile.  
"Look me in the eye and tell me in all sincerity that you would not have done the same, had you been able to and had our positions been reversed. Look me in the eye and tell me that, and I will let this go and will admit that you are right."

Legolas sighed and closed his eyes, feeling that now would be a very good time for a cup of pain medication.

"It is not about me being right, Estel," he said tiredly. "I am terrified of the possibility that it was me who caused your death. Neither I nor Celylith would be able to live with ourselves."

"And neither would I," Aragorn said, looking quite a lot like an over-earnest puppy. "I was there, Legolas, and I had a chance to save you. How could I have lived with myself if I had not seized it?"

Legolas looked at his friend, feeling exhaustion that was not purely connected to his injuries pull at his mind, and decided that there was no way they were going to get each other to see eye to eye on this. Besides, Aragorn was right. In a strange, not entirely logical way, of course, but it was close enough.

"I … I understand, Estel," he finally said. "I do. But I am not happy about it."

"And that _I_ do understand," Aragorn retorted.

"Somehow I doubt that," Legolas muttered under his breath. Aragorn looked ready to protest, and so he hurriedly added, "Let us leave it at that. We can do nothing more than speculate at the moment anyway. Now," he interrupted himself and glanced at Celylith's still form, "How is Celylith doing? Elrohir assured me he would be all right, but…"

"Barring any unforeseen complications, he will be just fine," Aragorn said with a smile. "The burns were … extensive, and he will need several weeks to heal completely, but he should be all right. Elrohir gave him a sleeping potion some hours ago, and I would advise against discontinuing he doses until he has gathered his strength. He will be in a lot of pain once he wakes up."

"I see," Legolas said, feeling how the last bit of that heavy, suffocating weight was lifted off his shoulders. "Thank you."

"You are so very, very welcome." Aragorn smiled, before he cocked his head to the side and gave him a penetrating look. "Now, how do you…"

"I am fine," Legolas told him quickly, before he had to repeat the entire conversation he'd had with Elrohir. "Weak and a little shaky, but very much alive."

"That is good to hear," Aragorn said with a slightly suspicious cant of his head. "Now, let me just…"

"Please, Estel," Legolas began, shaking his head, "Elrohir already looked me over, quite thoroughly, I might add. Tell me how you found us."

Aragorn's expression changed from I-am-an-experienced-and-wise-healer-you-wish-to-tell-me-everything-I-want-to-know to slightly sheepish and definitely uncommunicative.  
"That is actually quite a long tale. Boring, too."

Legolas flashed him a quick smile.  
"Bore me, then."

The young ranger returned the smile somewhat half-heartedly, and – reluctantly – told him. Legolas listened to the halting tale, torn between fascination, incredulity and sheer appreciation of their dumb luck. He possessed just enough self-restraint not to interrupt his friend every two seconds.

Aragorn was still speaking when fast hoofbeat could be heard outside that was quickly drowned out by excited voices, and the morning got much, much worse.  
**  
****  
****  
**

Haldar had seen many unlikely things in his life. He had seen a hobbit who wasn't hungry, he had seen a beardless dwarf (he had been drunk at the time but he was still sure he had been real, no matter what his companions said), he had even seen a troll hit its own toe with its hammer. That, in particular, had been an interesting sight, in that strange, almost-certain-doom kind of way.

What he had never, ever thought he would see was Captain Daervagor paralysed with fear.

The captain was a man like they were, of course, all of them knew that (even though there were always some recruits who would have contented that statement). He was prone to the same hopes and fears as the rest of them, and sure to suffer the same feelings of helplessness and terror and sadness as them, but … well, but he had never expected to actually _see_ it.

Now that he did, he wasn't all that sure that he wanted to, no matter how many times he had wished that his superior displayed his emotions (with the marked exception of anger) a little more openly. Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

Daervagor interrupted his train of thought by unclenching his teeth long enough for him to get a sentence out, something that seemed to be connected with quite a lot of effort.  
"Define 'gone', Naurdholen."

The ranger in question hung his head, the dark strands of his hair falling forward to cover the truly nasty contusion on his forehead. There was an air of dejected defeat about him that seemed to intensify, and Haldar was sure that, if not for this duty he had undertaken, the younger man would have collapsed where he stood.

"When we had put out all the fires and regained our bearings, the commander and Halbarad were gone, sir. We think they took them with them."

If anything, Daervagor grew even whiter. One of Lord Elrond's sons – Lord Elladan, he thought, even though he couldn't be completely sure – stepped forward, clearly prepared and willing to catch the man if necessary, before Daervagor composed himself again.

"My tent. Now." He turned to Haldar, nodding into the direction of aforementioned tent, before he turned to Serothlain, who stood next to Amlaith and Tarcil, all of them solemn and quiet. "Have the guards doubled. I want a dozen men to be ready to leave in half an hour. If nothing else, we must help secure the village."

"Yes, sir," Serothlain said with a nod, eyes troubled and uncertain. "What about…?"

"That is all, Serothlain," Daervagor stressed, his voice as cold and hard as obsidian.

"Yes, sir," the younger ranger repeated, ducking his head. "Eldacar! Lhanton! To me."

Without another word, the captain turned around and walked off, his face completely expressionless. It was that calm composure that shocked Haldar more than open wailing would have. This was like a volcano waiting to explode, the sort of terrible silence before an unstoppable occurrence, and he really didn't want to be in the vicinity when said occurrence finally did happen.

He didn't have a choice in that matter, however, and so he steeled himself and followed his captain. Lord Elrond's sons and Estel were already hurrying towards the captain's tent, white and tight-lipped, and Haldar felt the absence of the other two elves of their party most keenly. They were in no condition to be up and about, Lord Celylith especially, but somehow he had the feeling that it wouldn't stop either of them for very long, at least not unless they had been drugged with something very potent.

He half-hoped to see them soon, actually as soon as they had mended enough to be up without doing themselves any additional harm. They had needed all the help they could get before, and now, with what had happened in the village … Valar, but this was bad. The village compromised and several houses severely damaged, three villagers and one of their men dead, and Halbarad and Commander Cemendur gone … this was very, very bad. He tried very hard not to think about what might be happening to the two of them right now. Elbereth, but Halbarad was barely more than a boy! No one should have to suffer like Baran and the others had, least of all a lad who had only just reached his twentieth year.

Being preoccupied with visions of doom was not the best thing to do in a camp full of jumpy rangers and close-to-paranoid elves, and so Haldar wasn't overly surprised when he stumbled into one of his comrades heading towards the general commotion behind him and nearly got clobbered over the head with the hilt of a sword. The other ranger apologised profusely before he hurried towards the centre of the camp, clearly only half aware that he had just nearly killed one of his own people, and Haldar reoriented himself just in time to see Estel disappear into the captain's tent. Cursing under his breath, Haldar hurried to catch up. Even under normal circumstances, it could be a bad idea to be late for a meeting with the captain. Right now, it could very well be lethal.

He had almost reached the tent when a small sound to his left made him turn around. He was very conscious of his last collision, after all, and was none too keen on repeating the experience. What he saw almost made him hurry on, his instincts that had served him well in the past yelling at him to get out of this while he still could, but then the figure he had spied lost his footing and would almost have crashed to the ground. Before he knew what he was doing, he hurried forward, managing to catch the other just in time.

Yes, he might have spent the first two weeks of their acquaintance being terrorised by him and his friend, but he would not allow King Thranduil's son to fall flat on his face.

It would be a sign of bad breeding, if nothing else.

Said elf managed to get his feet back under him after a moment, his face white as a sheet. He still managed to give him a regal nod that would have delighted the strictest courtier, something that should be impossible for anybody as close to unconsciousness as he was.

"Thank … you."

"You are very welcome, my lord," Haldar said, deciding that this was slightly surreal. "Now, just what are you doing here? Considering your pallor, I would say you belong in bed. Or should at least be resting on a horizontal surface." He gave the pale face of the elf that was dotted with sweat – should Elves be sweating? – a quick look, and added, "_Any_ kind of horizontal surface, actually."

"I will be all right, Master Ranger," the elf said, quite neatly avoiding answering any of his questions. "You do not happen to be heading for the captain's tent, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I am heading that way, yes," Haldar answered. "What are you doing here?"

"I?" Legolas asked with the kind of innocence that made you immediately think of dead bodies, destroyed crockery and burning buildings. "Well, actually I am out bed against the collective and very explicit orders of Estel and the twins and am currently trying to get to Captain Daervagor's tent without falling and breaking my nose in the process, and if the three of them catch me before I get there, they will drug me." He wrinkled his forehead. "Or kill me, whichever is more convenient at the time."

"Ah," Haldar merely said, caught off-guard by so much straightforwardness. "I see. And you would appreciate some assistance, I take it?"

"If it wouldn't inconvenience you too much, yes," Legolas said with a tired nod. How the elf had even managed to get dressed was a mystery, Haldar decided. "I wanted to get there before them so they couldn't throw me out, but getting here was a little bit more … complicated than I had anticipated."

Haldar only gave him a wry look. 'Complicated' was an interesting and, as he thought, quite insufficient term for that. It was a miracle that the elf hadn't fallen over within the first few seconds of his little escape attempt.

"All right," he finally said.

Legolas only stared at him, surprise that was quite close to astonishment plain to see on his face.  
"All right?"

Haldar felt a perverse pleasure at having been able to surprise the usually so unflappable elf and grinned at him, slowly helping him to walk towards the off-white tent.

"You gave me an honest enough answer, my lord. Besides," he added, giving the elf a wry look, "I believe that Estel and Lord Elrond's sons would be even more displeased with me if I just left you out here to fall flat on your face. This way, I might die quickly."

"I told you … before, Haldar, … you are too," Legolas paused to suck in a breath, "too fatalistic by far."

"I like to call it experience," Haldar retorted.

"My …sympathies."

A moment later they reached the tent, and Haldar very purposefully avoided looking at anybody while he helped the fair-haired elf over to one of the foldable chairs. When he couldn't help looking up – even grim determination only got you so far, after all –, he did a quick scan of the tent's interior. The captain was crouching in front of one of the chests next to the table, searching through it and glancing at every roll of parchment before he dismissed it and put it aside. There was nothing openly frantic about his movements, but to anybody who knew him the urgency of his actions could not go unnoticed. The twins were standing around another chair on which Naurdholen was sitting, swaying from side to side. One of them was looking for something in a bag that Haldar guessed contained medicines and healing utensils, while the other kept the man's head tilted back and was staring fixedly into his eyes.

And Estel, he finished his enumeration, was stalking towards them, fury on his face and murder in his eyes.

"Just what," he asked in the exact tone of voice that Haldar's father had always used for demons and wraiths and orcs while reading him and his brother stories, "do you think you are doing?"

Haldar, who liked to think of himself as a realistic person, was quite aware that the other man was probably not only talking to the prince, but he was very willing to pretend. Very hard, at that.

"I am listening to what he has to say," Legolas said with a nod at Naurdholen, having regained some of his breath. "Judging by the shouts, something terrible has happened, and I do not intend to lie flat on my back while it does."

"You _should be_ flat on your back!" Aragorn retorted, glaring at both of them. "That is what people who just got rescued from orcs ought to do!"

Legolas looked at the young man with an expression that was as close to complete non-comprehension as it could possibly get.  
"Something terrible has happened?" he repeated.

"Yes, we know that!" Aragorn snapped back. "And something even more terrible is going to happen to you unless you stop this foolishness and return to your tent!"

"Please, Estel," Legolas said in a mild voice. He was completely calm and reasonable, and if not for the bruises and cuts decorating his face and throat, he would have seemed perfectly healthy. "I have survived my father, your father and Master Hithrawyn; your threats pale somewhat in comparison."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the elf. To say that he was displeased would probably be somewhat like saying that the Nazgûl were slightly malevolent creatures, Haldar decided.

"So, what happened?" Legolas headed off the imminent explosion.

The younger ranger clearly thought about not answering, but the seriousness of the situation won out over petty squabbles.  
"The village was attacked last night. Four men are dead, several injured, and Halbarad and Commander Cemendur were taken."

"Taken?" Legolas echoed. He paled even more, and for a second it seemed unlikely that he would be able to stay upright before he regained control of himself. "Eru Ilúvatar, I am sorry, Estel."

"Yes, so am I," Aragorn said, his lips pressed tightly together. "I will tell you more once I can. Now…"

"I am not going back," the elf said flatly. "Save your breath." He looked down at himself and his left hand which was trembling quite noticeably. "I doubt that I would get there anyway."

"I am sure somebody would take you."

"No, Estel."

The young ranger looked at his friend calculatingly.

"Who is looking after Celylith, then?" he asked, changing his tactics and displaying a touch of deviousness that was not completely surprising, considering who had raised him. "You just left him alone?"

Something that, under different circumstances, might very well have turned into anger danced over the fair-haired elf's face, and Haldar found himself cringing inwardly. The younger ranger stood his ground, however, either because he was quite a lot braver than him or was accustomed to being glared at by beings millennia his senior. Probably a little of both, Haldar judged.

"I did not just leave him alone," Legolas said in a very controlled tone of voice. "That young healer is with him, the one who wears his hair in a braid? I have forgotten his name, I'm afraid."

"Nestir," Haldar supplied before he could stop himself. Aragorn, apparently only now remembering his presence, turned and glared at him, and he cursed himself for a fool. "He is … very experienced," he added, asking himself just why he was sticking his neck out for an elf who did most decidedly not even like him. "He will take good care of him."

Aragorn's glare intensified, and Haldar fought the sudden urge to hide behind the prince. For one, it wouldn't really work since the elf was sitting down, and two, it would be hardly compatible with his warrior's pride. It was an awfully tempting prospect, though.

"I am sure he will," the younger man said through gritted teeth. "That is beside the question, however. I…"

He interrupted himself at the sudden silence that spread through the tent. The quiet conversation of the twins and Naurdholen (or rather them making remarks about his questionable physical condition and asking him if he knew his name and where he was) had ceased, and Haldar turned his attention to his captain, who had just finished unrolling the most detailed map they possessed of their immediate surroundings. The older man's face was emotionless and guarded, but his hands trembled ever so slightly.

"Show me what happened, Naurdholen," he said, jabbing a finger at the small, dark circle that represented the village on the map. "Show me _exactly_ what happened."

The young ranger was about to rise to his feet, dutifully nodding his head, but one of the twins pressed him back down onto his seat.

"If you try to rise, young one, you will fall over," the elf said. He nodded at his brother, who, giving Captain Daervagor a slightly disapproving look, walked to the table and carried it over to the sitting ranger, map, paperweights, candlestick and all.

Haldar, doing his best to remain inconspicuous, stepped closer as Naurdholen took a second to orient himself. Estel mirrored his actions after having cast a look at the elven prince that promised violence should he even try to rise.

"Commander Cemendur had us set up a watch," Naurdholen began, his voice sounding hollow and defeated. "There were several weak spots in the defences, and considering what had happened to Ciryon, Araphor and Ferneth, he and the town council thought it best not to risk anything."

"The part of the palisade next to the gate and the one to the east, overlooking the forest?" Captain Daervagor asked.

"Yes, sir," Naurdholen confirmed. "And another one to the northwest, the one overlooking that small slope. Limhith had the northwest, I had the south and … Halbarad had the east," he added haltingly, pointing out the exact positions on the map.

If anything, the captain's face grew even more expressionless.  
"Go on."

Naurdholen sighed and shook his head.  
"I am not entirely sure what happened, sir. We…"

"Then why in the name of the One did they send you?" the older ranger interrupted him, his voice barely above a furious hiss.

"Because no one does, sir," Naurdholen went on, swallowing hard but standing his ground. "It was about an hour before sunrise, sir. We later discovered that they climbed the palisade in the southwest, between Limhith's position and mine. They didn't try to attack the village itself; they merely shot a few flaming arrows as a distraction and in order to allow them to escape. When we reached Halbarad's and Limhith's positions, it was already too late. Limhith is dead, and Halbarad gone – and the commander with him."

"How…?" Estel began.

"Commander Cemendur was checking up on the two of them," Naurdholen answered, sounding utterly tired. "We found Limhith's body and Halbarad's spear to the northwest. There was no sign of the commander, not with all the tracks there, but he was nowhere in the village, neither dead nor alive. They must have taken him and Halbarad with them."

"Are you sure that it was orcs?" The captain's voice was soft and very, very serious.

"Yes, sir," the younger ranger answered softly. "The tracks leave no doubt at all, and the arrows were orcish."

"I see," Captain Daervagor said evenly. "What else?"

Naurdholen sighed and closed his eyes.  
"I failed you, sir. I did not notice a thing before they were inside the walls. I had to dive for cover to escape Limhith's fate, and nearly knocked myself senseless. When I regained my bearings, half the village was burning and they were gone. I am sorry."

The captain did not say anything for a moment or two, but the terrible expression on his face softened the tiniest bit.  
"Are you dead, Naurdholen?" he asked after a few heartbeats' pause.

"I … no, sir," the younger man answered, clearly confused.

"Then you did not fail me," the other ranger simply said. "What about the village?"

"The fires were completely doused when I left, sir," Naurdholen said, looking marginally less miserable than before. "Three people died in the fire, and Limhith, of course. They have set up guards and are preparing to evacuate. Belvathor and Torthagyl are still there. We thought it best to leave them with as strong a defence as possible."

"Indeed," the captain said to no one in particular. "Go find a healer, Naurdholen. You need that head wound taken care of."

The younger man frowned, bringing a hand to his forehead as if noticing the injury for the first time.  
"I am all right, sir. Just a little tired."

"You need rest, Naurdholen, and that is an order."

"Limhith was my friend, sir," the other ranger stressed, his pale face determined. "And Halbarad and the commander…"

"You have my word that we will not leave without you," the captain interrupted him. "Now, Nestir is waiting for you."

"Yes, sir, thank you," the younger man said, some of the tension that fairly crackled about him easing. He got to his feet, swaying until one of the twins steadied him, but politely shook off the helping hands. "I am all right, my lord. I can walk."

"No one doubts that, young one," the twin said with a small, forced smile. "You were lucky."

"Yes," Naurdholen said hollowly, turning to the tent's entrance. "Wasn't I just."

Haldar, who stood closest to the entrance, quickly stuck his head out of the tent, gesticulated at the next best available ranger and told him to make sure that Naurdholen got to the healer's tent. The other ranger nodded and firmly took one of the injured man's elbows, leading him away despite his protests. Haldar watched them go for a moment or two, and when he entered the tent again, the atmosphere had changed completely. That charged calm from earlier was gone, replaced by the sort of simmering fury and fear that usually resulted in people losing several appendages, and he almost winced at the tension that washed over him.

"…sorry, Daervagor," Elrohir (probably, at least) said. "So very, very sorry."

"Don't," the man bit out, shaking his head and refusing to tear his eyes away from the map. "Please, Elrohir, don't."

Haldar had barely enough time to feel satisfaction at having been right about the twins' identities for once when Legolas spoke up. There was a frown of concentration on his face that withstood even the looks of surprise (in Daervagor's case) and disapproval and anger (in Aragorn's and the twins' cases).

"Those weaknesses your man spoke of … they are not easily visible from the outside, are they?"

"Of course not," Daervagor replied. "Someone with keen eyes might discover one or two of them, though. They were planning to replace the sections in question."

"So it is out of the question that the orcs just passed by the village and thought 'Ho, this looks like a good place to pillage and burn'," Elrohir said, nodding.

"They did not pillage it, and didn't even burn it properly," his twin interjected.

"My point exactly." Elrohir nodded. "They did not come upon the settlement by chance. They were not interested in it at all. They climbed the palisade, took what they wanted, and disappeared. In and out, all very quick and clean."

"Too quick and clean," the fair-haired elf commented. "Orcs don't even know the meaning of 'quick and clean'. This was planned by someone who knew exactly what he was doing."

"Are you saying that one of the villagers told them where to go and what to do?" Haldar asked, unable to stay silent any longer.

"No," Aragorn answered for the elf, tearing his disapproving glare away from him long enough to participate in the conversation. "No, not necessarily, even though it is definitely a possibility. Our mysterious friend has his fingers in this, I know it. He is not interested in Dúnedain per se, he wants Rangers. He had a whole village to choose from, and who is taken? Two of our men."

"He is getting bolder," Elladan remarked, looking intently at the map. "They took a great risk upon them, even forewarned as they were. Climbing the palisade, taking two rangers and getting out before anybody can even make a move to stop them? That is brash."

"Or desperate," Legolas said quietly. "Whatever it is he wishes to know, he wants and needs it very badly."

If trying not to look at somebody had made a sound, Estel would have gone deaf that very instant, Haldar decided. The young ranger ignored them as well as he could, even though he paled a shade or two.

"And now he took Halbarad and Cemendur to find out," he said quietly.

"Exactly," Daervagor said, that furious, desperate panic bright in his eyes. "He took my son and my friend, and they will die rather than tell him anything. And, by Elbereth herself, _I will not have that_." He whirled back around to the map, fixing it with almost feverish eyes. "Where would they go?"

They all studied the map.

"The woods to the east offer ample cover," Elrohir offered. "Besides, they are opposite the site of the initial attack, so it would not be immediately apparent."

"Possible," Legolas said. "But there is a brook to the south, just here, see?" He pointed at a thin line crossing the map from upper left to bottom right. "They could use it to mask their tracks."

"It was about an hour before daybreak, wasn't that what Naurdholen said?" Aragorn asked thoughtfully. "They didn't have a lot of time to find cover, then. There is a hillside to the southwest. Is it big enough for some caves?"

"It is," Haldar confirmed. "But they aren't very large."

"Besides," Elladan added, frowning, "do not forget that these orcs already travelled during the day, or at least the late afternoon. They can bear the sunlight if they have to."

"All orcs can if they have to," Daervagor said almost dismissively. "The question is, are they afraid enough of their captain?"

"Yes." It was Legolas who answered, his already pale face having turned even paler. "The orcs last night, they … mentioned their leader. They were afraid of him, enough to keep us alive to try and appease him by handing us over."

For a second it was silent while the others processed his words, and Aragorn's lips became a thin, bloodless line.  
"That is why they didn't kill you?"

"Yes," the wood-elf said evenly. "Buzgókh wanted to give us away as a little gift. That and … well, we were _entertaining_."

Haldar suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He had seen the two wood-elves last night, had seen what those … creatures had done to them. No matter what Estel had done to heal them – and just what he thought about him doing so –, neither of them were even remotely close to being well. And the memories … well, he at least knew that he wouldn't ever forget the sight of the burns on Prince Legolas' friend's face.

"I am gladder by the second that I killed him," Elladan finally said very seriously.

"I couldn't agree more, _gwanur_," his twin said, nodding.

The fair-haired elf didn't look at them (or anybody else, for that matter), all his attention apparently fixed on the map and on not falling off his chair.

"Unfortunately this also means that they could quite literally have gone anywhere," he said, his voice soft from either exhaustion or the struggle to keep it steady. "If it can be reached within … say, two or three hours of the ambush, that is."

All of them looked back at the map. Prince Legolas' assumption was most likely correct, but also very inconvenient since it suddenly tripled, if not quadrupled, the number of possible hiding places.

"We will need a lot of search teams," Aragorn finally said simply.

"Teams of two," Daervagor agreed. There was a muscle moving in his jaw, pulsing so quickly that it almost made Haldar dizzy just looking at it. "We will assign the sectors once we are at the village. A contingent has to remain here to guard the camp, but I want all others with us. Haldar…"

"Consider it done, sir," Haldar said, giving his superior a small nod. "I suggest Eldacar is left in charge. He will take care of everything."

"A good idea," the older man acknowledged. "Have Hírgaer and Ereneth made a reappearance yet so I can tell them just what I think of their sudden need to connect with nature or whatever they think they're doing, or should we send out another search team for them?"

Haldar was about to answer when a loud crash could be heard from outside, followed by cries of alarm. It was, in fact, so loud that he was sure that the sparse furniture of the tent trembled. Judging by the way Prince Legolas' face turned grey all of the sudden, it really did.

The captain's face darkened like the sky before a thunderstorm, and Haldar couldn't help but feel pity for whoever was making this ruckus. It was a questionable decision to provoke the captain's fury under normal circumstances, but now it might very well be suicidal. To him, walking up to one of the Nine and telling him that black really wasn't his colour was preferable to chancing Captain Daervagor's wrath at this specific moment in time.

Before he could blink, the captain had stormed out, jerking the tent flap aside with a violent movement that made the entire structure shudder and tremble. Lord Elrond's sons and Estel helped their friend stand and all but ran after him, leaving Haldar with the choice of staring at a map he was quickly coming to hate or following them. Ah well, he decided, rolling up the long piece of parchment and tucking it under his arm. Someone should make sure the captain didn't kill anybody.

He was almost too late. When he arrived at the main fire place, now nothing more than a heap of glimmering coals, Daervagor was standing between Hírgaer and another ranger, Faedond, he saw, one hand on the chest of each of them. If not for the captain's restraining hold, the two of them would have leapt at each other, that much was certain. Even though he had known Hírgaer for all his life, he had never seen the younger man look as much like a snarling warg as now. He appeared to be uninjured, contrary to Faedond who sported the beginnings of what would later turn into a beautiful black eye.

The reason for that – or one of the reasons, at least – quickly became apparent. A little further back stood Hírgaer's younger brother, looming over Serothlain and Lhanton, who only just managed to hold him back. There was a thin cut over his left eye that leaked blood, and Haldar could almost watch as a dark bruise formed on his brow. It wasn't exactly surprising, he thought. Faedond had been a friend of Araphor, and neither of them had ever got along with the two half-Rehír.

"If you ever touch him again, I will kill you," Hírgaer spat, his right hand clenching into a fist at his side. He seemed quite unperturbed by the fact that he was being bodily restrained by his captain. "Do you understand me?!"

"If anybody is going to kill anyone, it is going to be me!" Daervagor growled, a sound that sounded even more ominous than usual. Faedond glared at the younger man, but clearly recognised the validity and importance of silence. "What is going on here?"

"He…"

"That little orc…"

"Silence!" The captain positively roared. "The village has been attacked and two of our men taken, and you act like this? I am ashamed of you!" He turned, glowering, his eyes searching the silent circle standing around them. "Eldacar! What is going on here?"

The ranger in question took an extra second to glare at both Hírgaer and Faedond, clearly expressing his desire to strangle one or both of them, before he answered.

"A little … misunderstanding, sir," he said, in the tone of voice of someone describing the Battle of Dagorlad as the site of a minor disagreement. "When Hírgaer and Ereneth returned, Faedond phrased his surprise at their late arrival in a somewhat … ambiguous way. Ereneth took offence, and it rather … developed from there on."

Eldacar, Haldar thought wryly, should have become a diplomat. He probably would have, too, if their people had had any need of them. Hírgaer, however, did not seem to agree, and pushed forward until the captain's hand pressed firmly against his sternum, a scowl on his face.

"He called us traitors," he snarled, green eyes narrowing in a way that promised death and doom for Faedond in the very near future. "He had the _gall_ to…"

"I merely said what everybody is thinking," Faedond returned in a similar tone of voice. The added insult of 'half-breed' went unsaid, but it echoed so loudly in the silent clearing that Faedond might as well have shouted it out aloud. Haldar felt how the hair covering the back of his neck stood on end. This might very well turn into true violence, and he somehow felt like holding Faedond still while Hírgaer pummelled him. "You and that brother of yours, always sneaking off, doing Eru knows what, feeling oh-so-superior to us…"

"I do not have to justify myself to you, Faedond," Hírgaer said, once again lunging forward. "And besides, I am superior to you! I could sneak up behind you and cut your throat, any time, anywhere. You would never hear a thing, and you damned well _know it_."

"_That_ I want to see," Faedond sneered. "The two of you were only allowed to join us because of your father. If not for his renown, your kind would never even have been allowed to…"

"My _kind_…?" the younger man repeated and lunged again.

"Enough!" Daervagor cried. "Faedond, you would do well to choose your words with care. It was I who selected them for training – and I did not care who their father was. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Faedond said, a mutinous look on his face.

"Now," Daervagor went on, "you may not have to justify yourself to Faedond, Hírgaer, but you do have to justify yourself to me. Why are you more than twelve hours late?"

Something that might very well have been a feeling of betrayal danced over the blond ranger's face before he regained control of himself.  
"We followed a trail south, sir. It looked orcish. It was a few days old already, but considering what happened, we thought it worth the effort."

"And?" the captain asked in a barely controlled tone of voice.

"It wasn't, sir," Hírgaer replied. "We lost it somewhere close to the gates. They might have left it a few days ago, but there is no way to know for sure. It led nowhere."

"Now isn't that convenient?"

Haldar didn't know if it had been Faedond who had spoken the words or if it had been one of his friends amongst the onlookers. The tone of voice, however, was mocking and ironic and designed to drive the two brothers to new heights of fury. Before Hírgaer could do one of the painful things clearly reflected in his eyes, Daervagor turned to look at him, effortlessly pinning the younger man with a fierce, grey-eyed stare.

"Silence," Daervagor said again, this time in a marginally more civil tone of voice. There was something dark in it, though, something Haldar knew from experience did not bode well for one of even both of the others. He looked at the fair-haired man who was one step away from launching himself at Faedond. "So he insulted you, and you decided to hit him? If you cannot behave in a mature manner, Hírgaer, you have no place with us. I thought you, like anybody else, knew that. We are Rangers. We do not fight amongst ourselves."

"Sir, it is my…" That was Ereneth, speaking up for the first time, but Hírgaer quickly interrupted him.

"Be quiet, brother," he said without turning his head, and to Haldar's immense astonishment – Ereneth did not enjoy being told what to do by people who had no right to do so – the younger ranger really did fall silent. "He hit Ereneth, sir."

"And you apparently hit him back," Daervagor said, clearly tiring of this debate. "Now, if the two of you are through behaving like squabbling children, we…"

"He did not only insult us, sir," Hírgaer interrupted his superior. Haldar could only stare, so surprised that he almost let go of the map tucked under his arm. He hadn't known that Hírgaer was suicidal. "He called Ereneth _mûl-en-Amrûn_."

The silence around them deepened. Calling one of the Edain _mûl-en-Amrûn_, and one of the Dúnedain of the North at that … well, that was roughly equivalent to calling an elf a pixy, or an orc. It often garnered similar results.

"I see." That dark something in the captain's voice was stronger now, and Haldar saw with considerable satisfaction how Faedond swallowed nervously.

"No one calls my brother that, sir," Hírgaer said. There was no fury in his voice now, not even agitation; he was simply stating an undeniable fact. The fair-haired man raised his head, his voice clear and loud and meant to be heard by the entire camp. "And no one hits him without having to answer to me."

"I see," Daervagor repeated. There was something on his face, some painful pang of memory, and Haldar remembered that, while the captain didn't have a brother, it was said that he and Arathorn had been very close friends, more like cousins or brothers themselves. "Faedond, Hírgaer, Ereneth, my tent. When I join you in a minute and one of you has one more bruise or even speaks to the others, I will do something I will thoroughly regret later. We need every man we can get, after all." The three thus addressed rangers hesitated, and he turned and glared at them. "_Now_."

The three of them hurried to follow his orders, and as soon as they were out of sight, the captain turned and looked at the onlookers, who seemed only now to remember that Rangers Did Not Eavesdrop.

"If I ever – _ever_ – hear anybody say those words to one of his comrades again, or even hear a whisper of a rumour that somebody has, I will personally make sure that he is discharged and returns home in shame. Do I make myself completely and utterly clear?"

The captain's words were met by the kind of resounding silence that could be found in very deep caves or on top of snow-capped mountains. Daervagor seemed to take this as agreement, as he well should have.

"We leave for the village in twenty minutes' time," he added, and even Haldar found himself shuffling his feet in embarrassed guilt. Bearing the captain's fury was hard, but bearing his disappointment was incomparably harder. "We will render what help we can and split up into search teams. I do not think I must explain what will happen to Cemendur and Halbarad if we do not find their tracks before sunset."

If such a thing was even possible, the silence deepened.

"Prepare your horses," Daervagor added, already turning back to his tent. "Dismissed."

The circle of onlookers parted for him like reed parted by the wind. A moment later the assorted rangers seemed to remember their pride, habitually displayed stoicism and their duties (not necessarily in that order) and they dispersed. Not even the elves or Estel remained; they moved slowly into the direction of the prince's tent, their heads closely together as they conversed in low voices.

Haldar remained where he was for a few moments, his thoughts and feelings confused. He thought of Hasteth who might very well have died last night and of what her death would have done to Serothlain. He thought of the commander's wife who could have shared her husband's fate, and of Ciryon who had so openly admired her. He thought of his brother whom he would never see again, and of Estel and his friends and the way the younger man's face had frozen in terror when he had seen the elves' wounds and realised his own helplessness.

Most of all, he thought of Cemendur and young Halbarad and what might be done to them right now, and how long it would take them to die.

Because he was a ranger and knew his duty well, he pushed these thoughts aside when he went to find Eldacar a minute later, but the images proved to be tenacious, and even while he was saddling his horse almost half an hour later he could hear the vague, distant sounds of pain-filled screams.  
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Skagrosh was, to all intents and purposes, a happy orc. Contrary to popular belief, it was not all that hard to make an orc happy. All it took was some bloodshed, a freshly slaughtered meal, a bit of gratuitous violence and, if possible, a prisoner or two with whom to amuse oneself.

Right now he had three out of four. Considering the way things had been going lately, that was a very nice change indeed.

Grinning in a way that would have made even a troll slightly uneasy, Skagrosh took a bite of what had once been a deer. That was the one thing that was very definitely missing: A freshly slaughtered meal. A few of the others had wanted to stop on the way back to the cave to try and hunt something to eat, but Skagrosh had driven them onwards with curses and the liberal use of a metal-tipped whip. The sun had already risen at that point, making every movement and even every look agony, and the very last thing he had wanted to do was _stop_.

Besides, he knew some things about them Rangers by now, and one was that they didn't take kindly to having their own snatched away under their very noses. The more time they had to lay false trails and mask their tracks, the better.

It had been slow going, especially with lugging those two _tarks_ around, but it had been necessary. It was against his nature to actually stay close to a place they had attacked earlier – never give them an opportunity to surprise you in your hiding place, he had been taught that a long time ago –, but orders were orders and he did not intend to disobey the master again – or ever, actually. The remains of his ear still hurt, even though the salve had held infection at bay, and he was in no mood to lose the other.

It had become somewhat less onerous once the young one had woken up and they had made him walk on his own, but not by much. He might be scrawny, that one, nothing but skin and bone, but he was fast, that he had to grant him. In the end they'd had to put him quite literally on a leash to keep him from trying to wriggle out of their grasp. The curses he'd spat at them then had been entertaining, to say the least, even though not as entertaining as the Elvish ones he'd growled. They had whipped him for that, of course, and that had been the most entertaining part of it.

And the best thing was that the master was actually _pleased_. All things considered, Skagrosh didn't really care a lot what the master thought, but he was the one giving the orders and, more importantly, cutting off ears. There was no doubt in his mind that he had been serious about cutting off something more important the next time he disappointed him. The mission, however, had gone off without a hitch, and they had even managed to get their hands on two rangers, not only one. The master hadn't said anything, of course, but the satisfied air coming off him in waves when he had been told about their prisoners had been quite unambiguous.

So even while everything was going well at the moment (the food thing excluded), Skagrosh was too shrewd and experienced to think that it would actually remain that way. The master had only arrived a few moments ago, just before nightfall, and had therefore seemingly not yet realised that there were ten of them missing. The orc growled low under his breath, making the three others walking behind him fall back a little more. Damn Buzgókh, that useless little worm! He didn't really know how anybody could get lost during the night, but apparently Buzgókh and the rest of that filth had managed it. They hadn't heard a peep from them since their retreat five days ago, and by now Skagrosh was far past angry, especially considering what the master would do once he heard about it.

Oh yes, Buzgókh was most definitely going to provide entertainment for the horde if he ever showed his ugly face here again. He would personally make sure of that, _after_ he had had broken a few of his bones.

They were nearing their destination now and Skagrosh swallowed the last of the maggoty meat, fiddling with his club. All the anger towards Buzgókh and the others faded in face of the anticipation pulsing through him, and a slow, lazy grin spread over his metal-adorned features. This was going to be _so much_ fun.

The guards standing right and left of the entrance of the small cave hurriedly stepped to the side once they saw him coming, and Skagrosh nodded to himself, pleased. That was how those maggots were supposed to act! Satisfaction mingling with the gleeful anticipation, he entered the small cave, stepping to the side to allow the faint light of the torch to filter through the doorway.

It wasn't that _they_ needed the light, of course; an orc's eyes were sharp in the dark and detected even the most minute movement. No, Skagrosh thought, his grin widening, it was for the _tarks_. It was so they could see them, see what was happening to them and what would be happening soon, so that the smell of fear and panic got heavy and intoxicating. It was so much sweeter to see the realisation of what was to come in their eyes just before the pain washed away everything else.

These two, of course, were just like all the others. Tall, dark-haired, grey-eyed and proud, or as proud as a pair of chained, bloody and unarmed men can be who are stuck in a cave full of orcs. One of them, the one on the left, was older, the one sporting a bloody head wound, and he was also the one staring at them with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. Skagrosh was quite sure that, if not for the chain running from the manacles clasped around his wrists to the stake they had driven into the ground, he would have tried to lunge at them.

Would have been useless, of course, but it would have been entertaining.

The younger one was bruised and sat hunched over himself, careful not to let his lacerated back touch the rock wall behind him. His face was almost as still as the other ranger's, but there was fear in his eyes, too, fear that he could not completely conceal. Skagrosh grinned lazily. This one was not quite as pretty as the one they'd nearly taken a few days ago – or that blond little worm that had ruined it all –, but he would most definitely do.

"Awake, are we?" he asked, baring his teeth at them.

"If you let us go right now," the older began in a tone of voice that was maddeningly calm and controlled, "we might not come back and slaughter all of you."

Fun, yes, that was definitely the right word for it. So much _fun_. Skagrosh drew back and kicked, hitting the ranger just where hip met torso. The man's face turned first white, then grey, and he crumpled back against the wall without making a noise. The younger one reached for him, half a second too late to catch him, and glared at them for all he was worth, eyes dark and furious. Skagrosh's grin widened. Yes, just like that pretty little ranger from a few days ago.

"Mouthy, ain't we?"

"Sir? Sir! Are you well?" the younger one asked his companion, ignoring them completely in a way that Skagrosh found rather infuriating.

"I am … all right," the other gasped out, straightening back up. His face was still grey and pinched with pain. "It is all right." He turned his head and looked straight at Skagrosh. "I was lying anyway. Today or in a week, it does not matter. You and all your men are going to die, _orch_."

Skagrosh flinched at the Elvish word. One of the others was quicker than him and lashed out, a heavily booted foot hitting the ranger in the side. Skagrosh snarled at it and the other two and rammed the end of his club into its side, making it collapse with a shriek. Then, for good measure, he gave the prisoner a good, quick jab into the ribs, too.

"Stop it!" the younger one yelled, trying to get closer to his companion. "No!_ Stop it!_"

"And why would we do that, worm?" Skagrosh asked, crouching down in front of him and digging his long, sharp nails into the young man's face. The ranger tried to wrestle his head out of his grasp but only ended up hurting himself, and so he finally stilled, breathing heavily. "What's that? No answer?"

"I'll give you an answer," the boy said, doing his very best to keep a tremor out of his voice. Skagrosh, however, could smell his fear and pain and panic, and he grinned. "The Captain knows you are here. Everybody knows you are here. It is only a matter of time before we find you, before _they_ find you, and when they do, they will kill every single one of you."

Skagrosh only smirked.  
"But you'll be dead, boy. And if you don't keep your tongue behind your teeth, it'll happen a whole lot sooner than you think."

The younger ranger clenched his teeth, visibly trying to steel himself.  
"I am not afraid of death."

"It's the dyin' itself that's the point, though, ain't it?" Skagrosh asked, smiling at him. He leaned forward, breathing in the scent of fear and panic, his smile widening at the boy's grimace of disgust. "I'll be talkin' to you in a few days, boy. You'll be begging me for death, mark me words."

He let go of the ranger's face, noting the long scratches he had left on his cheeks with satisfaction, and straightened up. The boy was looking at the dirt-covered ground, gasping for breath, while his companion stared at him with an expression of such hate-filled loathing that Skagrosh was momentarily taken aback.

"Take him," he finally ordered, nodding at the older man. "The master's expecting you," he added, giving the ranger something that might have been a snarl or a smile or both. "Let's see how mouthy you are in front of him, hmm?"

The man did not look at him, something that only served to fuel the ever-present rage bubbling inside of him. He didn't even seem to see the two orcs that were unlocking the chain connecting his manacles to the wooden stake, or the one who wrapped the length of metal around its hand as if he was an unruly dog that might try to bolt any second.

"Tell your father what I said," the ranger said, looking at his younger companion as if they were alone in the cave.

"I will, sir," the other man said, nodding. His face was stony and serious, his eyes dark in the gloom of the cave, but there was something in his voice that suggested that he did not expect to talk to anybody ever again. "Of course I will tell him."

"Good." There was the hint of a smile on his face even while he was being pulled to his feet, and Skagrosh decided then and there that Rangers were at least as mad as Elves. "Until we meet again, Halbarad."

"Until we meet again," the younger man repeated softly. "_Navaer_."

A blow dealt by the orc holding the torch whipped his head to the side, slamming it hard into the wall, and Skagrosh growled in annoyance as he left the small cave, leading his men back the way they had come. He would never understand the fascination that that bloody Elvish speech held for these _tarks_. They didn't learn, did they, not one of them, and even while choking on their own blood they would still whisper cursed Elvish words.

Somehow, it wasn't nearly as much fun dragging the _tark_ back to the master as it had been dragging him into the cave. It was annoying Skagrosh, annoying him _a lot_, and in a way that he couldn't understand. Just why did those bloody Rangers have to be so _strange_? It wasn't the bravado and the would-be fearlessness; Skagrosh had broken enough of them to know that, underneath it all, there were men just like all the others, even if a little more uniform-looking than most. They were just as afraid as anybody else, and, after a little time, would beg and scream just like the rest of them.

No, what was bothering him was that tiny sparkle of defiance that could not be touched or destroyed, no matter what he and the boy cut or maimed or broke. Amongst the tears and the screams and the begging there was something else there, something _more_ that made his hands twist into claws. It was almost unnatural, that spark of almost-elvishness, and in some it was stronger than in others. Like in this one here, or in the two they had come so close to capturing that he could still almost taste their fear.

One of these days, he thought to himself, he would see that sparkle die in the eyes of one of them, and it would be the prettiest thing he'd ever seen.

His mood significantly improved, he swung his club at an orc who made the mistake of walking out of another tunnel, grinning as it connected with the other's shin. Thanks to the other's armour, it didn't hurt it as much as throw it backwards, back into the tunnel and the guffawing laughter that erupted among its companions. Skagrosh and the others were still grinning when they reached the vaulted archway leading into the cave that was their destination, which promptly resulted in wiping the gleeful expressions off their faces. Making sure not to show any of his uneasiness – the last thing he needed was to further encourage vermin such as Grashók who would leap at the chance to try and supplant him –, he grasped the chain leading to the ranger's manacles from one of the others and entered the cave, dragging the bound man behind him.

It was completely dark in the small space, and Skagrosh could only just see the outline of the stake they had earlier driven into a crack in the stone floor. It was, in fact, so dark that even Skagrosh couldn't spot whom he was looking for, and he only became aware of his location as the shadows in one of the corners moved and seemingly slid to the side, revealing the tall, hooded figure of the master. He neither spoke nor moved, but Skagrosh felt the by now familiar shiver of dread-fear-pain roll down his back like a particularly heavy raindrop. _He_ had most certainly known what he was doing when He had chosen the master to deal with the _tarks_ up here.

"The ranger, sir," he said, bowing his head.

Still the master did not speak, and so he carefully lifted his head and hissed at two of the others to get out of his sight and stand guard. The two were gone so quickly that Skagrosh barely had time to blink, let alone snarl at them to get moving as he so dearly wanted to. The prisoner had stopped, standing tall and erect and staring unwaveringly at the master, and only when the other orc had thrust its torch into a fissure in the wall, bathing the scene in chaotic, flickering light, did the master speak.

"Bring him."

Skagrosh found himself moving, instantly obeying the order, and he nodded at the other orc. It drew back, an almost greedy glint in its eyes, and rammed its armoured elbow into the ranger's back. The man fell with a cry he was unable to smother, and in a matter of moments the chain was fastened to the stake, forcing the prisoner to remain on his knees next to the pole.

Skagrosh moved back, back against the wall and out of the range of the master's coldly glistening eyes, but the command he had been waiting for never came. The master seemed to have forgotten all about his or the other orc's existence, and Skagrosh wasn't about to remind him. His ear and all that.

"So," the master finally said after several more moments of silence and mutual glaring. "Commander Cemendur. I had a feeling that it would come to this."

"You have me at a disadvantage, then," the ranger said, that haughty, almost unconcerned look that Skagrosh would have loved to wipe off his face once again on his face. "I had no such warning. If I had, I would have come with half a company more and would have wiped your helpers out of existence."

The master laughed. It was not a pretty sound.  
"Come now, Commander. I believe you would have needed more men than that."

"I am not going to discuss military strategy with you," the man bit out. "How did you get into the village? Who are you? What do you want?"

"My, those are a lot of questions. I have no intention of answering them, by the way."

"I have more," the ranger said, sounding as if he was seriously considering trying to rip the stake out of the ground and beat the dark-cloaked figure over the head with it. "Among them 'Just how big do you think are the chances that any of you will get out of the Angle alive?'"

"Slim," the master said, apparently quite serious.

For a second, the man seemed stunned.  
"I would agree."

"But you, Commander, should know that you will not leave this _cave_ alive," the master went on. "And neither, I am afraid, will your young companion."

"And you should know that neither he nor I will tell you anything."

"Maybe not." The hooded figure inclined his head. "In your case, most probably not, even though I know that you know the answers to my questions. But you never know. The law of averages decrees that, sooner or later, someone will tell me what I want to know."

The man cocked his head slightly to the side.  
"You do not know much about the Rangers, do you?"

"Oh, I know plenty," the master assured him. "I know about you, Cemendur. I know about your lovely wife who anxiously awaits your return. Should anything happen to her … why, it would be a tragedy."

All colour seemed to drain out of the prisoner's face and he lunged forward, the manacles digging into his wrists and drawing blood.  
"If you so much as touch her, I swear by Eru Ilúvatar himself that I…"

He broke off when the other, moving quite lazily, drew back and delivered a blow to his face that threw him backwards, knocking him into the hard wooden pole. Skagrosh watched in glee as the thin skin covering the left cheekbone split and blood began to ooze down the man's face and into the stubble covering his cheeks.

"Now," the master said as the ranger shook his head from side to side, like a bull readying itself to charge again, "let's try to remain civil here. Your pretty little wife does not concern me. I would be hard-pressed to get her out of the village now, and she's too sensible to be outside on her own … and even if I managed, you wouldn't live as long as it would take me to get to her. She does not matter."

The prisoner closed his eyes, exhaling, and Skagrosh could hear the cold smile in the master's voice.

"You should worry about yourself, Commander. And about your young friend. My, I wonder what Captain Daervagor will say when he hears that you allowed his only son to be captured."

The ranger raised his head, his mouth twisted in hatred and confusion.  
"How do you know my name? How do you know all this?"

The master's face was hidden by the voluminous folds of his hood, but the satisfaction he radiated was hard to miss.

"I know everything that goes on in that camp of yours. I even know that the two wood-elves were attacked by some of the horde yesterday." The prisoner's head came up with a start, and the other cocked his head to the side. "Ah, do not worry. The good Master Haldar and the others rescued them. Then again, I wonder why you _should _worry. You, after all, do not even like them, not one bit."

Skagrosh narrowed his eyes at the master's tall, cloaked figure. That certainly explained why Buzgókh and the others hadn't returned – running into a couple of elves and then a rescue party of _tarks_ tended to do that to you. Still, it was a bleedin' shame. Two of the elves would have been even better than two rangers. It would even have made up for the lack of proper food.

"Now," the master went on when it became clear that the ranger had no intention of speaking whatsoever, "let's get back to the business at hand." He reached inside his cloak and withdrew a long, gleaming knife that seemed to catch every single ray of the weak, flittering light that illuminated the cave. "You are too intelligent to believe any comforting lie I could tell you. We both know that you are going to die, you and young Master Halbarad. The only question is how you will die, and how quickly. It is the only thing you can influence, Commander."

The ranger only stared at the other, his face emotionless.  
"I am a ranger. I never expected to die in my sleep of old age; Valar, I am surprised that I reached my sixth decade. If it is my fate to die here, then die I will."

"Spoken like a true ranger," the cloaked figure said, but even Skagrosh realised that there was something else under the mocking levity, something far more profound. "Willing to lay your life down for your people, your captain and the good cause. Tell me, does that include sacrificing the life of your companion? What would your friend, the dear captain, say to that?"

"Daervagor will not trade for me," the dark-haired man said, his voice very calm and confident. "Nor will he trade for Halbarad. The rest," he added, "does not concern you."

"Oh, I know that," the master said. "I know that the captain puts duty and honour above all else, even above his own family. Otherwise, I would have done something like this a long time ago."

"How do you know all this?" the prisoner repeated. "How _can_ you know all this?"

"I have invested a lot of time in this," the other answered. "My master has invested a lot of time in this. Even if I would have chosen differently, there is no choice in this anymore, neither for you nor for me. I _will_ find out what he wishes to learn, one way or the other."

"Your master?" The man narrowed his eyes. "Of whom do you speak?"

"You misjudge your position, Commander," the cloaked figure said, his voice sharp as he ran the thumb of his left hand lightly over the blade. "_I_ ask the questions here."

The ranger raised his head, dark hair caked against the side of his head with blood and dirt, and straightened as much as he could.  
"And I will not answer them."

For a moment, the master's shoulders seemed to slump, as if he had truly expected that this could be settled like this. A second later the impression was gone, and Skagrosh watched how he stepped closer to the bound man, the knife in his hands gleaming menacingly.

"You have no idea how much I had hoped you wouldn't say that," he said quietly, as if sharing a great secret with the dark-haired ranger. "I do not wish to do this, but I will. And when I have to leave, my … friends will continue where I left off. It will not stop, neither for you nor for your companion, until you tell me what I want to know."

"I have no doubts about it, _móradan_," the prisoner hissed. "I have buried enough friends these past weeks to know what your words mean."

The other seemed to shrug under his cloak and stepped closer still, and that seemed to have been what the man had waited for. Throwing himself forward in a last show of defiance, he made a grab for the other's cloak with his manacled hands. The master was momentarily taken off guard, but the danger was over before Skagrosh had time to even think about acting. Faster than Skagrosh's eyes could follow, he had slid to the side, mostly evading the blow and striking out with the knife. A bloody line appeared on the ranger's right upper arm as the blade opened a long, deep wound, but the man did not let go of the other's cloak, riveted on the shadowed oval of the master's face.

What he saw, Skagrosh did not know, but it seemed that the scuffle had disturbed the folds of the cloak enough for him to gain a glimpse of the other's face.

"You!" was all that broke out of him, the single word laced with pain and disbelief and betrayal.

The other didn't say anything for a moment or two. Then, as if coming out of a long dream, he moved, drawing back and slamming his left shoulder into the prisoner's newly opened wound. The man let go of him with a cry of pain and collapsed onto the floor, trying to clasp the bleeding injury with his cuffed hands.

The master stood up in a single, smooth movement that reminded Skagrosh of the one beast of the Nine he had seen once, many years ago, all elegant, steely smoothness and deadly menace. He slowly and deliberately reached up and rearranged the folds of the hood around his face, making sure that it remained hidden and shadowed, before he looked back down onto the wounded man.

"Yes, Commander," he said, seemingly more to himself than to the ranger or anybody else. There was something in his voice that Skagrosh could not identify, something that, in another time or place, might have been sorrow. "Me."

Skagrosh must have made a sound, then, maybe of confusion or of anticipation, and the master whirled around, for the first time remembering their presence. Even though his face was once again completely hidden by the voluminous cloak, Skagrosh felt like a pinned insect when he found himself the object of his cold stare.

"Get out!" the master ordered him. "Let no one disturb me!"

Skagrosh, his heart thudding inside of his chest, felt himself nod and backed away. Snarling at the other orc, he made his escape, feeling how the darkness of the cave washed over him, whispering of safety and comfort.

It took him quite a long time to shake off the cold fear that enveloped him, just as long as it took the ranger to lose control and scream.

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**TBC...**

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_mellon nín (Sindarin) - my friend  
I mát i arano nát i mát envinyantaro (Quenya) - The hands of the king are the hands of a healer  
gwanur (S.) - (twin) brother  
mûl-en-Amrûn (S.) - 'slave/thrall of the East'. Since the vast majority of the "lesser" men fell under the dominion or at least the influence of Sauron (Haradrim, Southrons, Easterlings etc.), it is a rather unfriendly thing to say to anybody connected to them in any way. It can also be used to describe people of other races (Edain, Orcs etc.) who serve the Dark Lord.  
tark (pl.: tarks) (Black Speech) - Man of Gondor/of Númenórean heritage  
orch (S.) - orc, goblin  
Navaer (S.) - Farewell  
móradan (S.) - 'Man of Darkness', one of the men who have fallen under the shadow of the East. Essentially, the same kind of insult as "mûl-en-Amrûn" _

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You know, I DO think that the bad luck is part of their genetic makeup. Halbarad never stood a chance, poor lad. Plus, the bad guy once again proves that, no matter what, villains enjoy threatening, gleeful speeches. It's one of the perks of being a villain, I guess. •g• So, don't lose hope, because the next chapter WILL be here, even if it takes a little longer this time. Reviews are love, to put it simply. Thanks in advance!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**As always, I have to apologise to Tatsumaki-sama for not including her in my group email thingy. I have found that a single email containing the review replies works best for me. For that, I need a valid email address, so please either log in before reviewing or leave an address if you wish to review anonymously. Best use FF-net's space for that, since email addresses tend to get eaten if put into the main body. Thank you, and sorry for any inconvenience this might cause!**


	23. Don't Talk To Strangers

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**I hate FF-net, have I mentioned this before? They screwed with the formatting of all the old stories. Which, of course, means that I will have to go back and fix everything. I will have to go back and manually fix over 130 chapters. •death glare at FF-net• I really hate those clowns sometimes... Oh, and my finals (or at least half of them) are coming up at the end of the month, so I'm a little stressed at the moment.**

**Be that as it may, I'm back! I had a lot of fun in Italy, where I learned a lot of things, among them How To Gather All You Equipment And Findings Within Three Minutes And Then Run For It because it POURED about half the time. In the end we could get our things together, fetch our personal stuff, grab the boxes with the findings AND make it back to the bus in less than five minutes. We're good. •g• Oh, and we found lots of interesting things, among them a fireplace that had really no business being where it was, considering we were excavating the city walls. •frowns• With a bit of luck there'll be another campaign next spring, so we'll see.**

**Oh, and another bit of news: Since I can't seem to stay in my own bloody country for more than a few months, I'll be off again soon. I'll be in Jerusalem doing an internship from June till August, and September I'll be in Portugal on another dig. So things will be a bit confused again, but don't worry about that just yet. There'll be another chapter before that happens - not even I am so evil as to leave you like this for an unspecified amount of time. I mean, I could, of course, but I won't. •evil grin•**

**So, here's the next bit! In which Aragorn is mentally whumped (yes, that DOES seem to happen quite a lot lately) and is reminded of the fact that he shouldn't talk to strangers, the twins are worried, Daervagor receives a bit of bad news, and Haldar desperately wishes someone would remember to dismiss him. Also, Celylith decides to rejoin the waking world (quite reluctantly in the beginning) and Legolas makes sure he receives a surprise visitor. Oh, and Aragorn ... well, let's just say that being stuck on patrol with (an unobservant) Ereneth, (a helpless) Lhanton and (a grieving) Serothlain is soon going to be the least of his problems. And that means a lot.**

**As always, enjoy and review, please! **

* * *

Chapter 23

_Even though he had been expecting – or rather, dreading – something like this, it still came as a shock when he opened his eyes and just **knew** that he wasn't awake._

_No, it didn't make much sense to him, either._

_He simply knew that this was a dream and not his, either, even though you weren't supposed to know such things and even though he didn't have the faintest idea how he knew it. Then again, the pitch-black darkness that positively teemed with menace might have been a slight giveaway._

_He turned _ around_, trying to pierce the blackness, even though he knew that it was pointless. He hadn't managed to make out the contours or the shape of the room he was in (if it **was** indeed a room) before, and he was too realistic a person to believe that that might change now. He had, after all, not had the best of luck lately, now had he?_

_Just when he thought his eyes had got somewhat used to the darkness, it intensified, if such a thing was even possible. It was as if something black – a black so dark that your eyes simply slid off it – had coiled itself even tighter around itself, like a huge snake either hiding or readying itself to strike. The comparison was entirely uninvited and unwelcome, and he shuddered, a shudder that quickly moved to encompass his entire body._

_He knew what was going on, or knew it as well as someone being slowly paralysed by fear could know anything, but, if anything, that knowledge made everything even worse. The darkness was simply too oppressing, too **much** in every aspect, and he couldn't stop it from enveloping him whole._

_If he hadn't been so busy not losing his mind, he would have groaned. This was most definitely not good._

_The by now expected fear rose inside of him like a particularly suffocating wave that swept everything away that stood in its path, and this time he was quite sure that at least a part of it belonged to him. It didn't take long for the pain to make an appearance, too, slicing through his head like a knife, and before he knew what was happening, he found himself on the smooth, invisible floor that seeped coldness into his flesh and bone and into his very core._

_He still couldn't see anything in the darkness, but there were things you just didn't have to see. It was enough to find yourself on your knees, writhing in pain, to know that there was something there with you, something whose very being was as much part of the darkness as malice was a part of evil._

_A sudden, tiny pinprick of light cut through the solid wall of blackness that surrounded him, and he looked up. There was a small, many-rayed star shining in the darkness, seemingly a long way away. It might have been small, but it was made of pure light, and he felt how some of the pain and fear receded. But even as he watched, a dark, vicious fluid pooled around it, shining dark red in the sparse light, and from one moment to the next, the star's soothing rays were extinguished._

_He might have cried out in denial when the star was snuffed out, but then a sudden, fierce pain stabbed through his throat, robbing him of all breath and reason. His hands came up, clawing at his neck in search of what was tormenting him so, but his trembling fingers encountered nothing, nothing but the thunderous, far-too-fast beating of his heart. Unable to support himself any longer, he fell backwards, flopping over like a fish out of water and gasping for breath. The pain increased until he would gladly have clawed out his own throat to make it stop; only now it was joined by fuzzy images that flashed across his vision beneath his firmly closed eyelids._

_Distracted by the pain in his throat, he did not have the strength to fight them. That might have been a good thing, for they left a trail of fire in their wake that seared his mind and set his thoughts aflame. There was a short glimpse of a still body lying on a hard stone surface. Even though he could not concentrate enough to see it clearly, it emitted the feeling of "broken" so clearly that someone might as well have shouted the word. It was followed by the fleeting image of an orc's hideous face, scarred, one-eared and hate-filled beyond reason. It disappeared back into the darkness, leaving a trail of fiery pain in its wake that made him moan softly, but otherwise he didn't even bat an eyelid. He was in too much pain and, strangely enough, too terrified to feel afraid._

_Then there were the flames again, reaching for him with hungry, red-hot fingers. He could not evade them, could not escape the fire that was slowly engulfing him, and this time, he did scream, even though the sound seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness almost immediately. Tears of pain running down his cheeks, he closed his eyes against the unsteady images flashing before him and prayed to either die or lose consciousness, whatever came first. He found that, right now, he didn't really care._

_Then, as suddenly as the pain had begun, it stopped. He waited for a moment or two, unwilling to believe that it could be over just like that. Taking a deep breath, astonished that he could do so without wishing he could rip out his vocal cords and strangle himself with them, he first opened one eye, then, when nothing changed, the other. He was met with the same darkness as before, but … no, it wasn't the same. It was different, somehow, as if he had changed locations without noticing it._

_On the other hand, he thought, maybe that was exactly what **had** happened._

_There wasn't much of a difference, he mused, still feeling strangely light-headed from the sudden absence of pain. The darkness here – wherever "here" was – was just as absolute as before, and the underlying, all-encompassing fear was still there. If anything, it had become even stronger._

_And then there suddenly was a difference, he noticed in the exact same moment that his head started hurting in that familiar, breathtaking manner. There was the simple matter of not being alone._

_It was easy to miss, of course. The darkness was so absolute and the cloaked figure stood so still that he almost didn't see it, even though every fibre of his being screamed at him in warning. The darkness seemed to coil itself around the figure, and he could have sworn that it surrounded it with waving tentacles. The fear was joined by a dark, helpless hatred that washed over him like a great wave, and he couldn't stop himself from shivering._

_Now that simply couldn't be a good sign._

_Before he had to decide what to do – his choices were woefully limited anyway –, the figure turned towards him, the heavy folds of the dark cloak swinging about it soundlessly. In the exact moment the other moved, the pain in his head increased to almost blinding levels, and he couldn't help but hunch over himself in an unsuccessful attempt to ease the pain._

_The first wave of agony passed somewhat, and despite the blinding, paralysing pain still throbbing in his skull he managed to look up, blinking tears of pain out of his eyes. The figure had not moved, neither towards him nor away from him, and, for just a second, he could have sworn that it was just as clueless as he was._

_Sensing that he had only seconds before he pain would crest again and probably incapacitate him for good, he struggled to lift his head._

_"Who are you?" he asked, his voice full of pain and fear and a fury that surprised himself. "What do you want?"_

_The dark-cloaked figure raised its head a little, the interior of the hood nothing but a gaping hole full of utter blackness that sent a spike of pure terror through his heart. The pain hit him again, then, as if in punishment for his question, and he found himself slipping little by little, his mind unable to bear the pain and darkness and terror. The figure's outline grew dimmer by the second, and he could barely make it out at all amidst the blackness when it spoke._

_"You cannot hide forever. I will find you."_

_The voice seemed to reverberate through his very bones, the darkness contorting the sound until it was utterly unrecognisable and terrifying. He stared into the darkness, straining his eyes and using the last bit of his strength that the constant agony hadn't yet drained away._

_"Why…" He had to stop for a moment, the pain spiking unbearably. "Why are you doing this?"_

_The cloaked figure was completely invisible now, swallowed by the darkness that had parted so willingly to allow it passage. When the echoing voice finally spoke again, there was nothing but blackness surrounding him, closing in on him like wargs on a wounded deer._

_"Because I have to."_

_There was no time to think or speak, then, because the darkness and the pain reached him, washing over him and tearing his mind asunder, and everything spiralled away into blackness._

**  
** **  
****  
**His heart beating so quickly that it almost was a single, uninterrupted sound roaring in his ears, Aragorn surged upward, or at least tried to. In reality, three things impeded that automatic response, and, if he had been in a slightly more lucid state of mind, he would have been hard-pressed to say which one annoyed him the most: The fact that he had apparently curled himself up into a tight ball, the fact that there was a legion of tiny miners working behind his brow and wreaking havoc on his balance and his general ability to concentrate or move without whimpering, or the fact that someone was holding him down.

Weak, confused, and trembling with pain, however, he decided to resent the situation in general.

The hands holding him down eased their pressure, allowing him to move more freely, even though there was still a hand clamped around his right wrist. He fuzzily asked himself just where the second hand was, mostly to distract himself from the only slowly lessening pain that was like a tight, metal band wrapped around his forehead. It took him several seconds to connect the strange, feather-light touch he felt from time to time against his forehead to the absence of the second hand, and longer yet to realise that someone was carefully brushing the hair away from his face. It was something that had last happened to him when he had been young, or badly injured, of course.

"Are you awake?" a soft voice asked that Aragorn's fuzzy brain identified as Elladan's.

After contemplating that question for several long seconds, Aragorn finally gave the tiniest nod. It was enough to make his headache spike again, and he moaned softly.

Calloused fingers brushed over his forehead again, soothing the pain away, and for a few moments he allowed himself to enjoy the sensation.

"Are you going to open your eyes?" Elladan asked a few moments later, his voice pitched low.

"Valar, no."

His voice might have been soft and hoarse, but he meant what he'd said. There was absolutely no way he would open his eyes. His brain would explode should he do something that foolish, he was sure about it.

Elladan chuckled softly, and for the first time the Aragorn realised that his oldest brother must be holding him up. The sound was brittle and strained, and Aragorn wondered just what had happened to make his brother sound like this. Or rather, he corrected himself, what he had done.

"Come now, Estel, stop being so stubborn. We have dimmed the light; it should be all right."

"Nothing is going to be all right," Aragorn disagreed, keeping his eyes tightly closed. He couldn't help but shiver against the still all-too-vivid images of his dream. "If I open my eyes, my head with burst like an overripe pumpkin."

"Please, Estel." That was Elrohir, he realised, and the younger twin wasn't playing fair. He was using the pleading, lost-puppy-in-a-dark-wood voice, the one he knew Aragorn's couldn't resist. He had always found it very unfair that a millennia old elf lord could sound like this. "Open your eyes."

And so Aragorn did. It took him a second or two to adapt to the dim light, and another few to persuade his head not to spontaneously combust, but in the end he managed to focus on his surroundings. They were more or less as he'd expected. Haldar, who he knew should be present, was absent, though, having been replaced at some point or other by the twins. Both of them were looking down on him, Elladan still holding his right wrist as if afraid that he might lash out at them. Their presence didn't really surprise him; the only thing that disconcerted him was that he hadn't got the tiniest idea how he had gone from falling asleep to being held by his oldest brother like the child he hadn't been for such a long time now.

"That's it," Elrohir said, smiling, in that particular tone of voice that was undoubtedly meant to be encouraging. "Are you awake now, _pen-dithen_?"

"That depends," he replied, carefully keeping his expression even. The way he felt at the moment, even a carelessly lifted eyebrow might mean a wave of renewed pain. "Are you a black-cloaked figure or an orc?"

The twins exchanged a _look_.

"I rather think we are not," Elladan said firmly.

"Good," Aragorn said, closing his eyes again against the dim light. "Then, maybe, I am awake."

"I would say you are," Elladan agreed, slowly letting go of his wrist. "Can you sit up, Estel?"

That was a very good question, and one Aragorn was in no real mood to contemplate. The twins didn't give him any time to protest, though, and so he found himself sitting back against the wall of the room. For a moment or two it felt as if the room was spinning around him, doing one crazy circle around his head after the next, but then the pounding headache eased somewhat and so did the sudden dizziness. When he was convinced that his head would remain intact – or rather, as intact as it had been for the past weeks –, he opened his eyes again.

The twins were still there, sitting right and left of him on his bed and looking like a pair of identical, worried statues. Their naturally pale faces were looking suspiciously white, even accounting for the poor lighting, and Elrohir had narrowed his eyes in that particular way that he only used when he was trying to figure out a way to prove that his conversational partner was not only wrong but also stupid, or when he was very close to terrified.

Aragorn, who had regained his wits somewhat, hoped with all his heart that the younger twin was only looking for the right words to scold him. He had scared his brothers enough to last all of them several decades.

"Here," the object of his deliberations said, handing him a cup that seemed to have materialised out of nowhere. "Drink this."

Aragorn took the cup, but peered suspiciously at the dark liquid filling it almost to the rim. After an experimental sniff, he decided that it did not contain any of the more commonly anaesthetic herbs that they had brought with them, and, beyond that, he didn't really care at the moment. Without a word, he tilted back his head and swallowed the concoction, which didn't actually taste all that horrible.

The twins looked at each other again. It was clear that they hadn't expected such instant obedience – or any kind of obedience, maybe.

Silently he handed back the now empty cup. Elrohir took it as gently as he would have taken hold of a newly-hatched bird and placed it next to him on the ground. It seemed that none of them knew what to say next. It was Aragorn who broke the silence first, the fear from before still coiling in his chest like a particularly malicious dragon.

"What did you just give me?"

"Something to help with the pain," Elladan answered. "We … well, it looked as if you could use it. We had been trying to wake you for several minutes before you awoke. And I know from experience what kind of headaches usually accompanies dreams like these."

Which meant that they had witnessed at least a part of his dream, Aragorn realised, not really knowing why he was feeling such mortification.

"Oh," he said, not all that eloquently. "I … see."

"Yes," Elrohir said with a tight smile. "And that is the problem, isn't it? What was it you saw?"

Even though Aragorn had known that the question would be coming, it still caused his heart to skip a beat. The mere thought of what he had seen was enough to make cold sweat appear on his forehead and his heartbeat to double its pace. The darkness had been so complete and utterly terrifying, and that terrible, heart-wrenching mixture of pain and fear and despair and _fury_ that had almost choked him…

"Shh, Estel. Be calm."

Elrohir's voice interrupted his panicky train of thought, and a steady hand gripped his shoulder. Aragorn took a shuddering breath, only now realising that he had been only one step away from hyperventilation.

"I am all right," he said, after several moments of trying to get his heartbeat back under control.

Elladan looked at him as if he had just said that orcs were in reality gentle, peace-loving creatures.  
"You cried out in your sleep, which, if I may add, didn't look very peaceful. Forgive me for failing to be suitably impressed by that reassurance, Estel."

"Yes, well," Aragorn said, running a hand through his hair. "It is all I can offer you."

"Then let us help you, Estel," Elrohir said, squeezing his shoulder once more. "Tell us what you saw. And don't even think about telling us it was 'just a nightmare'."

Aragorn chuckled, leaning his aching head against the wood-panelled wall at his back.  
"Would you believe me if I tried?"

The twins shook their heads simultaneously, not hesitating for even a fraction of a second.

"No," Elladan answered for the two of them.

"Yes," Aragorn said, nodding. "That's what I'd thought."

He let his eyes wander over the small, bare room, coming to rest on the low bed where Haldar had been reclining when he had closed his eyes before waking up to darkness and pain. They had arrived at the village a day and a half ago and they had found … nothing.

Oh, they had found smoking buildings and serious, solemn-eyed people who looked at them with such quiet trust that, after a while, he found it difficult to look them in the eye. The had found a trail, too, but it had led onto rocky terrain where it had trailed off into nothing after a mile or two, and not even the twins' keen eyes had been able to locate it again. They kept looking, of course, because the alternative was utterly unthinkable. They would keep looking until they found Halbarad and Cemendur, one way or the other.

They weren't having much luck, however. The most memorable things that had happened in the last two days were Ereneth almost stepping into an old bear trap, sending his brother into paroxysms of worry and anxiety, and Tarcil and Lhanton losing their way in the forest, getting separated and returning to the village past midnight, exhausted and ashamed, just when they had been readying a search party.

So, if the mood had been subdued before, it was abysmal now. They all knew that the chances of recovering either of the two missing rangers alive dropped by several points with every passing hour. If they had had a trail to follow, it would have been easier to bear, even though they would have had to watch the hope die in the captain's eyes little by little.

But they had nothing of the sort. For all intents and purposes, Halbarad, the commander and their captors had disappeared into thin air. Considering that said captors were orcs – that much, at least, had by now been established beyond the shadow of a doubt –, it should not have been possible. If anyone would have told Aragorn anything of the like, say, two weeks ago, he would have laughed and suggested that they seek medical help.

Now, however, he was doing nothing of the sort. All he did was do his duty, search for those who were most likely far beyond their reach by now, and dream of death and darkness.

"Estel?" Elladan prompted gently.

Aragorn blinked slowly before he looked up.  
"I … I think we should wait for Daervagor."

The twins exchanged a look, and Aragorn knew why. As they had repeatedly told them, the Aragorn-Daervagor-no-nothing-is-wrong-at-all thing was something that no one could understand, but there were certain, quite definite rules. One was that they blocked off any attempt to try and force them to at least admit that they had a problem ("I have no idea what you are talking about"), another was that both of them were carefully ignoring each other whenever they occupied the same room (or, as it happened, the same camp). The thought that, if he insisted that they wait for his kinsman, it simply couldn't be good was plain to see on their faces.

They were spared from having to articulate their doubts or surprise by the door opening with a loud creak. The little room was suddenly lit by another oil lamp that was held by a very steady hand which appeared in the room before its owner. Aragorn would have recognised that particular, come-what-may steadiness anywhere, and he felt how his heart skipped a beat. Knowing that he had to talk to Daervagor and actually talking to him were two very different things.

Cemendur's wife had offered them what space she could in her small house. She was a tall, willowy, beautiful woman with sad eyes that sent shivers of guilt down Aragorn's back. Daervagor had not tried to console her and had only accepted her offer with silent gratitude, but Aragorn felt that the older ranger felt just the same – or worse, if that dead look in his eyes was anything to go by.

But there was nothing for it. Daervagor was his mother's cousin, and he actually _liked_ Halbarad. He owed it to the two of them, and to Cemendur and to all those he had been unable to save.

Raising his gaze, he looked at the two men who had just entered the small room. Haldar was just closing the door behind him, looking as if he had been woken from a very deep and restful slumber. His hair stood almost on end – quite an accomplishment since it went past his shoulders –, his shirt looked as if he had hastily thrown it on, and his boots were unbuckled. Daervagor, on the other hand, looked as if he hadn't slept at all. It wasn't an all that unlikely assumption, since his eyes were red-rimmed and he was so white-faced that even the most respectable wraith would have been shocked.

The older man stopped just inside the door, looking at all of them with calm eyes. If Aragorn hadn't known better, he would have thought that Daervagor had spent the past days doing nothing but reading reports and was now heartily sick of it but too polite to show it. The small oil lamp he held did not flicker, and his hand was completely still. For an elf that kind of composure would have been nothing out of the ordinary, but for a man, Aragorn realised, it was strangely … disconcerting.

And he was, of course, related to him. These things had stopped surprising him a long time ago.

Daervagor looked at him, looking as calm as if they had just met in a tavern. Aragorn, however, could see that particular, almost wild gleam in his eyes that he had come to know far too well. Inwardly, Daervagor was just one step away from ripping out his hair and running around in circles.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Aragorn, who had been hearing that question far too frequently lately, was by now quite sick of it. Daervagor, however, rarely said something that he didn't mean, and so Aragorn didn't say the scathing words that were on the tip of his tongue.

"I am fine," he said, very aware of the fact that he was sitting on his bed with his back pressed against the wooden wall in a way that suggested that, if he only could, he would be backing away even further. "It was a … nightmare."

"No, it wasn't, and no, you aren't," Elladan interrupted him, annoyance radiating from every fibre of his being. "Stop pretending, Estel."

"I am not … Valar!" Aragorn exclaimed, turning to glare at his brother. "That is not what I am doing!"

"Isn't it now?" Elrohir asked softly. "Estel, you can tell us. It is all right."

"No, it isn't!" Aragorn turned from one twin to glare at the other. In the background, Daervagor looked at them as if they were speaking Dwarvish, while Haldar, dishevelled as he was, looked as if he was desperately waiting for someone to dismiss him. "I spoke to him, Elrohir! _Nothing_ is all right!"

Come to think of it, it might not have been the best idea to drop this announcement without prior warning. The twins, sitting left and right of him, seemed to freeze, staring at him with large, storm-grey eyes. Haldar, standing in front of the door, looked as if he didn't understand what was going on and as if he wished to be clobbered over the head if he showed the first inklings of comprehension. Only Daervagor looked like he always did, but Aragorn was sure that he could almost hear him grit his teeth.

"You … spoke to him?" Elrohir repeated, in the tone of voice of someone asking about that strangely red colour illuminating Mount Doom and refusing to believe that it was a bad sign in any way. "You … you _what_?"

"It just … happened," Aragorn said defensively. "I didn't plan it."

"I would certainly hope so!"

"It just _happened_!" he repeated.

"Things like that don't just _happen_!" Elladan told him. "Marriages just happen. Accidents just happen. _Wars_ just happen. Talking-to-your-enemy-who-most-likely-wants-to-kill-you-and-everyone-else-he-can-get-his-hands-on is not something that just happens!"

"Yes, it does," Aragorn stressed, clinging to his self-control and sanity by what felt like his fingernails. "Especially when you're out of your mind with pain and fear and panic and hardly know what you are doing."

For a second, it was silent. Finally, Elrohir spoke up.  
"Estel, what happened?"

Aragorn exhaled, feeling the last of his anger dissipate. He wasn't even sure at whom he was angry; it was just a churning, indiscriminate anger that he found hard to control. It was disturbingly like the anger he kept feeling in his nightmares, the dark, suffocating kind that had long ago stopped to make sense and was now directed at anything or anyone that crossed its path.

But his brothers were waiting for an answer, and so were Haldar and Daervagor, even though he really tried to avoid thinking about the latter. But no matter what problems he and his mother's cousin had, he deserved some answers, even if they were of the kind that no one wanted to hear.

"I … it started like it always does," he finally began, voice hollow and emotionless. "It was … dark." He hesitated for a moment. 'Dark' was a woefully inadequate description, but there was no way he would start describing how painful and just plain terrifying it had been. That way lay madness. "There were some images, looking like painted pictures or a scene that had somehow been frozen in place. I could see them for a second or two and then they were gone, just like that."

No one said anything, and he took a deep, steadying breath.

"I think … I think that one of them is dead." He lowered his head, not wanting to look at anybody right now, least of all at the two other rangers. "Maybe even both."

For a long time, there was nothing to be heard, and Aragorn kept his head carefully lowered. Then there was the soft clacking of boot heels on wooden floor boards, and the sounds of rustling cloth as someone slowly sat down in the room's only chair.

"Who?"

Daervagor's voice was soft, deceptively so, but there was that brittle quality to it that Aragorn knew far too well. It was the tone of voice of someone who knew that, no matter what the answer, he was doomed.

Aragorn pressed his hands tightly together, willing the sudden shakes to subside.

"I do not know," he said. "I just saw a body. I could not make out any details, nor see his face."

"Then how do you know it was Halbarad or the commander?"

The question had been asked by one of the twins, and it was testament to Aragorn's state of mind that, try as he might, he couldn't figure out to which one of them the voice belonged.

"I saw a star," he answered, staring at his forcefully stilled hands as if his life depended on it. "A beautiful, many-rayed star that shone on in the darkness. I have seen it before, in almost every nightmare I've had. This time," he interrupted himself and swallowed, "this time, it was … extinguished. And there was an orc, terribly scarred and gleeful and full of hatred."

The silence grew heavier, and he looked up. Daervagor was sitting in a wooden chair close to the door, his face shadowed and so emotionless that it caused a cold shiver to run down Aragorn's back. The twins were looking at him as if they were waiting for something, some kind of reaction, maybe, while Haldar looked torn between sympathy, the urge to help and the desire to be far, far away from here.

"I do not know how to describe it," he added, desperate to make the others understand and to put into words what he had seen and felt. "I just know. There is no rational way of explaining it. I don't know if there is anything rational about it at all. There were those images and then the pain and…"

"What pain?" That was Elladan, and the distinction didn't cause him any trouble at all. Only Elladan could bark out questions in a way that was loaded with that much concern.

Aragorn turned his head and gave his oldest brother the _look_. Unless his memories had been addled over the past ten minutes or so, he was rather sure that the twins had been here when he had woken up, weeping with still remembered pain. Elladan looked back coolly, and Aragorn realised that the elf was actually waiting for an answer.

"There is always pain," he began, casting his mind about for a way to get out of this conversation or, if that failed, at least out of this room. "Mostly of the kind that makes you feel like your head is being squeezed in a huge vice. But tonight … there was that, yes," 'a lot of it', he didn't say, "but it was also more focussed."

"Focussed where, Estel?" Elrohir asked.

Aragorn sighed inwardly. He should have known that the twins wouldn't let this go.  
"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters," Elladan answered for his twin, sounding as if he was doubting his human brother's intelligence, if not his sanity.

Aragorn shot Daervagor a quick look. The older man was staring at him with an unreadable expression, but there was something about him that whispered of barely-sustained hope that he just couldn't bring himself to destroy. There were things you didn't have to know, shouldn't know, really, and this was one of them. It didn't matter. Dead was dead was dead.

"He could not have survived it, let that be enough," he said in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.

"Please, Aragorn. I have to know."

Daervagor's words shocked Aragorn in so many different ways that, for a moment, he could only sit and stare at the other man. Daervagor rarely spoke to him, and when he did, he certainly didn't use his given name. And that desperate, pleading tone of voice … he was quite certain that there weren't a lot of people, dead or alive, who had ever heard that from the captain's lips.

Elbereth, how he wished he had done the sensible thing and simply volunteered to take a watch tonight. There was no way to put this delicately, and so he looked at the other ranger and then away, not wishing to see that tremulous sparkle of hope die in his eyes.

"They cut his throat, I think," Aragorn said as bluntly as he dared. He only realised that he was touching his neck when he felt the weight of the others' gazes upon him, and dropped his hand as if he had been burnt. "Or strangled him. Whatever they did, he did not survive it, about that I am sure." He looked up, chancing a look at Daervagor's far-too-collected face. "I am so very, very sorry."

"Ah." It was all that the other ranger said for long moments, but then he blinked, climbing unsteadily to his feet. "I … excuse me, please."

A moment later he was gone, and Aragorn's addled brain needed some moments to connect the soft footsteps to the door closing to Daervagor being gone. The other man's exit, while not really surprising, still rattled him enough so that he needed some seconds to process it. Maybe he shouldn't have told him that, he admonished himself instantly, but then again, what choice had he had?

After several long minutes, Haldar interrupted the silence. He even managed to pose his question without freezing in place, which was more than most men could lay claim to when pinned by one of the twins' truly disapproving stares.

"And you saw nothing that could give us a hint as to who it was you saw or where they are?"

Aragorn's headache, which he had almost forgotten in face of all this, resurfaced with a vengeance, and he tiredly pinched the bridge of his nose.  
"Do you not think I would have told the captain if I had? Halbarad is my cousin. I would have loved nothing more than to give his father the news that he, at least, is alive even while the commander perished."

"I … of course." Haldar finally quavered under the twins' open disfavour and back-pedalled quickly. "Forgive me, my lord."

Usually Aragorn would waved it aside, but right now his head was hurting and his chest filled with a churning mixture of fear and grief and anger and panic, and so he didn't say anything. The twins, however, were apparently done staring disapprovingly at Haldar (who, by now, seemed to have got used to it somewhat), and remembered just why they were here.

"You said that it 'started like it always does'" Elrohir began, proving that he had been listening to every single word that had been said. Aragorn gave him a hard look. It was so typical of his brothers to turn into elven stenographers all of the sudden. "How did it continue?"

"Just like it did before." Aragorn realised that the reply was sullen and childish and, most importantly, that Elrohir didn't deserve to bear the brunt of whatever it was that made him want to lash out at somebody. "I suddenly was somewhere else, or at least that was what it felt like. And then … well, then he just appeared."

"He?" Elladan asked.

"Yes, _he_," Aragorn stressed, asking himself if someone had hit his brother over the head since the last time they had talked about this. "We've had this discussion before, Elladan. There is nothing more I can tell you, even though I am rather certain by now that he is indeed a man. And before you ask: No, I did not see his face."

"I did not mean to criticise you, Estel," Elladan assured him.

"I know," Aragorn said contritely. By now his head was spinning and humming like a bee hive, and he hardly knew which of the feelings churning in his breast were his own and which belonged to … well, someone else. "Valar, I know, Elladan, I am sorry. I … I just…" He trailed off and looked at his hands again. "I think I made a mistake."

"Estel." Elrohir's voice was soft and gentle and maybe a little afraid, but Aragorn didn't dare look up. A firm hand placed under his chin didn't give him any choice, and Elrohir repeated, "Estel, look at me." Knowing when he was beaten, Aragorn did, meeting his elven brother's grey eyes. "What is done, is done. We only wish to help you, and we can only do that if you tell us what happened."

Aragorn only looked at him. He hated it when the twins became reasonable in such moments.

"I know that," he told Elrohir. "It's just … I know that you told me not to speak to him or ask him anything, but … well, I did."

"Well, that's not such a…"

"He answered, Elrohir."

"He … answered," Elladan repeated. Aragorn could practically see how his oldest brother calculated the distance to Rivendell, how long it would take them to reach it at top speed and how he would get him to co-operate in getting there. Or, maybe, the distance to Lothlórien. "What did he say?"

Aragorn easily heard the effort with which Elladan was clinging to his self-control, but he was far too busy doing the same to be very concerned about it.

"I asked him who he was."

"I daresay he did not answer that question."

Aragorn, who recognised an attempt to lighten the mood when he saw it, gave Elrohir a wry look. His mood was not lightened in the slightest, but he appreciated the thought.

"No, he did not," he told the elves. "He," he hesitated and searched for something to look at, "he told me that I couldn't hide forever, and that he would find me."

"Ah." Elladan echoed Daervagor's earlier remark, his voice completely calm. "And then?"

"Then," Aragorn went on reluctantly, "I asked him why he was doing this." He tried not to notice the wince the twins didn't even bother to hide at the word 'asked'. "And he said 'Because I have to.'"

"Because he has to?" Elrohir repeated, sounding faintly scandalised. "What does he expect, sympathy?"

"I doubt that," Aragorn replied wryly. "He stated it as a fact, as something that does not matter. He will do what he can to find me, no matter what he thinks about it."

"Commendable, only _not_." There was steel in Elrohir's voice, mixed with the kind of barely suppressed panic that could drive the most even-tempered elf lord to distraction. "Does he know who you are? Did he say anything about why he is looking for you?"

Elladan looked at his twin as if he had said the stupidest thing he had heard this century. Maybe it was, too, because they all knew just why 'he' was looking for him.

"No," Aragorn answered evenly. "And I don't think he knows who I am. I mean, I think we can safely assume that he knows whose son I am, but he does not know me, or what I look like. He guesses that it must be me he sees in his dreams, but … well, somehow I have the feeling that he is as unhappy about them as I am."

"Why would he be?"

"I don't know," Aragorn admitted. "Maybe he doesn't really know what to do with them, just like me. Or he is afraid that I might learn something about him."

"And, did you…"

"No."

"Yes," Elladan said slowly. "That is what I had thought."

"I am sorry, my brothers," Aragorn said, feeling suddenly not entirely unlike a six-year-old who had misbehaved and knew it, too. "I know that you told me not to speak to him, but I … I don't know what I was thinking."

"You weren't thinking, I would say." There was no censure or disappointment in Elladan's voice. "You were too busy holding onto your sanity and keeping your head from bursting like an overripe melon. We do not blame you, Estel. We have experienced what you have. In such moments, one does not tend to think clearly or well."

"From what you were saying, though, I would say that he did not learn anything about you." Elrohir clearly tried to find the positive side. "He still doesn't know who you are."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed slowly. "Yes, I would say so, too. But I do not _know_."

"It won't matter," Elladan said in an utterly uncompromising and very calm way. "We will find him, and when we do, it will not matter what he knows."

Aragorn raised his head and looked him straight in the eye.  
"I cannot live like this, with this hanging over my head. I will not."

The twins exchanged another one of their _looks_.

"Estel," Elrohir began in what Aragorn had long ago dubbed his 'Let's convince them they really want to do what I want and just don't know it yet' voice, "Estel, maybe this is the time to consider returning to Imladris. Just until this is over."

"And when exactly will that be?" Aragorn asked curtly, his headache spiking again. "In a week? A month? A year? Two, maybe? Even if I had that time, I will – not – do that. I will not run and hide."

"It is not about hiding, my lord." To Aragorn's substantial surprise, Haldar had decided to rejoin the conversation, a decision which, considering the twins' evil stares of disapproval, was a very brave decision. Or, possibly, a foolhardy one. "It is about surviving. If returning to Rivendell protects you from the designs of this … miscreant, I am more than willing to personally escort you there. And I know that the captain would not disagree."

"I will not run away, Haldar," Aragorn stressed. "If _he_ wants me, then he will have to come and get me."

"That is what I am afraid of, Estel," the other man said quietly. "He has been trying to achieve just that for many months now. Sooner or later, he will succeed."

Aragorn thought about assuring Haldar that he knew how to take care of himself, but it would have been an insult to all the rangers who had already fallen to their mysterious enemy, men decades his senior in both age and experience. Men like Haldar's brother.

"He may," he admitted instead. "But I cannot leave now, even if I wanted to. It has gone too far."

"He is looking for you, Estel," Elrohir insisted. "We _know_ that he is. It would be sheer stupidity to give him this opportunity he craves and for which he has killed. You should not give him what he wants."

"It has gone too far!" By now, Aragorn's last remnants of self-control had completely disintegrated. "He killed so many of our people, he killed Ciryon, his orcs captured and tortured and almost killed Legolas and Celylith, he has taken Cemendur and Halbarad, and now he follows me into my dreams? It is enough! I will not skirt my responsibilities and run away because we now know what we have already been suspecting for quite some time. I will not make it easy for him, but I will see to it that _he is stopped_!"

"Estel…" Elladan tried one last time.

"No, Elladan," Aragorn interrupted him almost gently. "He has tortured and killed so many of my people and my friends, and now he has taken my cousin. Would you return home just like that?"

Elladan looked at him darkly.  
"That does not matter, Estel."

"Would you?"

"We have no cousins."

"_Would you?_"

"Technically speaking," Elrohir interjected, "you are our cousin, Estel, several generations removed. You know that we wouldn't."

"Then please do not ask of me what you would not do yourselves."

Suddenly, Elrohir smiled, the kind of Erestorish smile that said that he now had you and you would soon find yourself handing over all your trade goods for a price that you had never thought you would accept.

"Extend us the same courtesy, _muindor nín_," he said. "You would ask of us the same, were our places reversed. You did ask the same of us in Baredlen."

Aragorn glared at his brother. Arguing with Elrohir just wasn't worth it.  
"That was something completely different."

"No, it wasn't, and you know it."

Aragorn's glare intensified.  
"I will not leave. These are my people, my responsibility. They are dying because this … man is looking for me, and because they will not tell them who or where I am. I will not leave others to deal with this problem, because it is _ my_ problem. He wants to find me, and, as Haldar said, he will, sooner or later. And when he does, I will be waiting for him, and I will show him what a mistake he made in coming to the Angle and harming my people!"

This time, the twins didn't even have to exchange a look to agree that they were beaten.

"Very well," Elladan said, looking very much as if he was saying this against his better judgment. "But let us send word to _ada_. Just to inform him of the changed situation."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.  
"So Glorfindel can come charging into the camp with an army?"

"If _ada_ and he think it necessary, yes."

Elrohir shot his brother a dark look.  
"You know that he won't." He frowned. "Well, he only will if it is really unavoidable. You do know how much Glorfindel likes to make a dramatic entrance."

"You are not helping your cause, Elrohir."

"The point is," Elrohir went on, unperturbed, "that the ties between the Dúnedain of the North and Imladris have always been strong. Not informing the Lord of Imladris of this would be foolishness. Sending an army in response would be nothing else, either. You cannot fight what you cannot find. And if we cannot find their tracks, then Glorfindel's scouts cannot, either. It would simply be a matter of courtesy, Estel."

Contrary to the twins, Aragorn didn't even try to keep arguing when failure was the only possible end result.  
"Very well. We will write him."

The twins nodded in satisfaction, leaning back against the wall. For several long moments, it was silent, and in the end, Haldar cleared his throat. To Aragorn he looked very much like a man prepared to make a last ditch for freedom.

"It is just another two hours until sunset. With your leave, I will see how the guards are doing and if Serothlain is already awake. We still need to talk about today's search teams."

Serothlain, Aragorn guessed, was already awake. Where sleeplessness was concerned, he was second only to the captain, who seemed to have sworn off sleep altogether. All of Halbarad's friends were working tirelessly, and today the order to return to the village at dusk had been received by Ereneth, Lhanton, Tarcil and several other younger rangers with as much disapproval as rangers ever showed in public.

And Serothlain … well. He was not only friends with Halbarad, he had already been Ciryon's friend. He was performing his duties with the single-minded intensity that Aragorn had seen far too many times already, and was hoping never to see in one of his friends or his family. He didn't care for much but revenge at the moment, and that was something that never ceased to frighten Aragorn, mostly because he knew how close he had been to that point himself.

"I think I will accompany you," Aragorn quickly said, all but surging to his feet. "I would not be able to go back to sleep now anyway."

While Haldar waited politely at the door and Aragorn pulled on his boots and tried to remember where he had put his leather jerkin, he felt the twins' eyes boring into his back. He knew that they had all but given up on convincing him to return home, but they might very well try and make him talk about his dream again. They only did it to help him deal with it, to help him interpret what he saw and felt, but right now he would have preferred a full-blown orc attack to having to talk about his nightmare.

Having located the jerking and shrugging into it, Aragorn turned to leave, but stopped and looked back over his shoulder, darkness and guilt and pain and fear still swirling in his mind.

"I … I just can't," he said, hoping his brothers understood how sorry he really was, because, no matter what they thought, he knew that Baredlen hadn't been that different at all and because he could still remember how grateful he had been that the twins had heeded his request. "I am sorry, but I can't."

Not waiting for an answer, he made to leave, and just when he stepped over the threshold he thought he saw a perfectly synchronised, resigned eye-roll from the twins.

But it was entirely possible that he was imagining it, he admitted to himself as he walked down the dark corridor, old wooden boards creaking under his boots, because right now he was willing to take what light and hope he could find.  
**  
****  
****  
**

Legolas was convinced of two things at the moment: That you could actually die of terminal boredom, and that he was exactly two and a half seconds away from suffering just that fate.

And what was worse: It wasn't that there was nothing going on. Oh no, there was enough going on to supply even the most ambitious novelist with enough material for a few years. The maddening thing was that it happened far away from here while he was stuck here and couldn't do anything about it.

There were good reasons for that, reasons that had to be explained to him only once before he admitted that they were all good and sensible ones. Amongst the battery of "What would your father say if you fell flat on your face?", "Do you _want_ Mirkwood to go to war with the Rangers?" and "We will look after Aragorn, we promise", there had been two that had made the decision for him (apart from the fact that the twins were, annoyingly enough, quite correct and that he most likely wouldn't have had the strength to get up anyway): One, that he would be more a liability than an asset, and two, that Celylith would wake among strangers.

Especially the latter had made him stay behind. Celylith was one of his father's captains and therefore his responsibility, no matter what that stubborn excuse for an elf thought and how much he always tried to throw himself between him and any kind of perceivable danger. The had been friends for so long that Legolas could quite literally no longer remember a time when they hadn't been, and they knew each other as well as you could probably know anybody. And Legolas knew that, no matter how nonchalant he usually acted, Celylith did _not_ enjoy waking up in strange surroundings in confusion and pain.

Granted, nobody did, himself included, but Celylith positively hated it. There were many reasons for that, all of them very unpleasant, and while Celylith usually restrained himself, not allowing his discomfort to show, Legolas would be damned if placed his friend in such a situation, especially not after what he – they – had just been through.

And there was also the unimportant, almost completely negligible fact that he felt terribly responsible for what had happened. Rationally, he knew that it wasn't true, that it had been nothing but bad luck, but, well, rationality didn't have much to do with it. Besides, this had been the kind of bad luck that usually happened to him and Aragorn, and he therefore should have anticipated something like this. But he hadn't, and so Celylith had almost died, which no one could have anticipated and with which he was back at irrationality.

Legolas leaned back in his wooden chair, wishing for the umpteenth time that he could bury his head in his hands. He couldn't though, not unless he wanted to chance the wrath of that Dúnedain healer again, something that, if he was honest, he would rather avoid. The ranger in question was young still, especially for one of the Dúnedain, but he already quite good at I-am-glaring-at-you-until-you-do-what-I-want. And besides, the boy did have a point. No matter what Aragorn had done to heal him, he was still weak and had trouble staying awake for longer periods of time. His shoulder was stiff and so sore that he was actually glad that the healer had strapped the arm to his chest, glaring darkly at him the entire time. He was happy about the small comfort that the immobilisation offered, even if it meant that his bandaged right hand was constantly in his field of vision. It was a reminder of what had happened – and almost happened – that he could very well have done without.

"Good morning, my lord."

Legolas raised his head, meeting the eyes of the ranger Daervagor had left in charge. They hadn't spoken much since the others' departure – or at all, really, since he had spent the majority of the last two days resting –, and for a brief, terrifying second Legolas thought he couldn't remember the man's name, but then it came to him. His father making him sit through all those never-ending diplomatic dinners had been good for something after all.

"Eldacar," he said, inclining his head in greeting. Sitting in his wooden chair, basking in the morning sun, he rather felt like a king holding court, and he couldn't help but smile slightly. "Good morning."

The ranger inclined his head courtly. Legolas had long ago ceased wondering how it was that the Dúnedain could act so supremely regal when they wanted and frequently also when they didn't mean to.  
"My lord. It is good to see you up."

"It is good to be up," Legolas said, smiling. "I am not used to spending long periods of time lying in bed. And," he added, the smile turning sheepish, "As I have been informed numerous times, I tend not to react well to it."

Eldacar smiled a thin smile, the smile of a person who had already had to deal with displeased healers at least once today and who knew how many times yesterday.  
"Yes, I've heard about that."

Doing his very best to project an air of complete and utter innocence, Legolas inclined his head.  
"So I'd thought. Everything is well, I trust?"

The ranger accepted the chair Legolas offered him with a wave of his hand and sat down. If he had the feeling that Legolas was questioning his judgement or checking up on him, he did not show it. That was not Legolas' intention anyway, well, not really, at least. But fact was that he didn't know Eldacar or didn't even know about him; all he knew was that Daervagor had put him in charge, and, hopefully, had had a reason for it. The ranger was quite young yet, about forty or maybe fifty, but he exuded an air of competence that was rather reassuring.

Then again, even dwarves could exude an air of competence, so that didn't mean all that much.

"Everything is well," Eldacar assured him with a slight nod of his head. "We do not have the manpower to send out extra patrols, however, so that might have something to do with it. We keep the usual posts manned, but that is all I can do unless I want to put the security of the camp at risk." He smiled. "And I have no desire to do that."

"And I, for one, am very thankful for it," Legolas said. "Far be it from my mind to admit that that healer who keeps hounding my every step might be right, but I do not think that I would be up to any kind of fighting right about now."

There was that thin smile again.  
"Yes, well, Nestir can be quite … adamant sometimes. He means well, though, and knows what he is doing."

"I did not mean to criticise your comrade, Master Ranger," Legolas assured the man. "I have nothing but the highest respect for his diligence and skills. But I have found that a healer's idea of permitted behaviour while recuperating and my own differ in some rather important areas."

"I know exactly what you mean, my lord." Eldacar nodded firmly. "I once had a completely harmless concussion, and Nestir and Hasteth insisted that I remain abed for a week! Fine, I was a little bit dizzy from time to time, but other than that I was perfectly able to walk around!"

If Legolas knew anything at all, "a little bit dizzy" translated to "unable to stand unaided". It was, after all, something Aragorn would have said. Legolas decided in an instant that he liked this man. It would have been hard to dislike someone with this kind of affinity for creative interpretation of the truth.

"Healers," he said long-sufferingly, accompanied by a wise nod from Eldacar. "You can't really survive without them and you are not allowed to kill them."

"Valar, no," the ranger said and looked aghast. "Nestir is one of Hírgaer's and Ereneth's more remote cousins. They get along quite well. I would rather walk up to a dragon and poke it in the eye than chance their wrath."

Legolas, who still didn't know what to think of the brothers, could only agree. Nobody in their right mind would actually give Hírgaer the chance to feel the need to avenge a relative. If his reaction to any kind of (real or perceived) attack on his brother was any indication, the end result would be bloody and thoroughly messy.

But the more he saw of the two of them, the more he thought that Ereneth might be just as dangerous, if not even more so. It was Hírgaer who exuded quiet menace in a way that a small part of Legolas found actually remarkable if not admirable, but there was something about Ereneth that clashed with his friendly, almost unconcerned manner. He was definitely more outgoing and gregarious than his brother – which, admittedly, wasn't all that hard –, but Legolas had more and more the feeling that the young ranger was watching everything that was going on very closely indeed. And sometimes … well, sometimes there was something in his eyes that he found hard to describe and which he knew for a fact he would not want to have directed at himself.

"I think that I, too, would prefer the dragon," he told the man, meaning every word of it.

Eldacar, who seemed to be no unobservant man, gave him a long look but chose not to comment. Casting his mind about for something to say, Legolas resisted the urge to fiddle with the bandage covering his hand from elbow to fingertips and changed the topic or rather, brought the conversation back on track.

"Daervagor has sent no word?"

"The captain," Eldacar stressed the word slightly, probably sensing that the omission of Daervagor's rank had not been an oversight on Legolas' part, "has not. Haldar, on the other hand, has, yesterday evening. They are still searching and have made no contact with the enemy."

That was at least something, Legolas had to admit; there weren't many things that were worse than sitting around doing nothing and worrying about those who had walked into danger. The first part, though … well, he would have liked to say that he was surprised. He hadn't said anything in front of Aragorn and the twins, both because Aragorn had somehow managed to sneak some anaesthetic herb into his water before they'd left and he had therefore missed their departure itself, but also because he hadn't wanted to say what they had all been thinking: That the search was most likely in vain and that they could count themselves lucky to find Halbarad's and Cemendur's bodies.

Legolas didn't want it to happen, hoped with all his heart that it wouldn't, actually, but he was also a realistic elf. The one behind this was good, very good even, and the chances that they would find him before he killed the two captured rangers were slim. He liked Halbarad, he truly did, and he knew what it would do to Daervagor if he lost his only son and his friend. The not-so-hidden enmity between the two of them notwithstanding, that was something he wished on no one, least of all on one of Aragorn's kinsmen. But secretly he thought that he would most likely never see the young man and the commander again, and it wasn't because he had adopted the rangers' slight fatalism. It was the voice of experience talking that he did his best to silence lest it drive him to distraction.

"If there is any news…" he began.

"I will inform you immediately," Eldacar promised. "I understand how hard it is for you to stay behind. All of us here feel the same. It can be a torment having to stay behind and do nothing while your friends are out there risking their lives."

"Yes," Legolas agreed. "It usually is. But I have a reason, one I would not change for all the mithril in this world."

Eldacar nodded that regal nod of his again.  
"I am glad for it, my lord, I truly am. When we found you, all of us feared the worst."

Legolas shuddered inwardly. Eldacar and his comrades had not been alone in their fear.

"We were lucky," he said, trying not to show just how very, very lucky they had been in reality. "If you hadn't found us so quickly, I doubt I would be speaking to you now."

Legolas was either not as good at masking his feelings as he'd always thought or Eldacar was psychic. Both possibilities were, at least in his opinion, entirely feasible. Be that as it may, the ranger gave him a quick, sympathetic look and inclined his head into the direction of the tent behind them.

"Your friend has still not woken?"

And that, Legolas thought to himself, was the crux of the thing. Celylith had indeed not woken, if one discounted the brief intervals in which he had been half-aware and almost delirious with pain. Aragorn and the twins hadn't seemed to think that Celylith's rather annoying unwillingness to rejoin the world of the living was reason to worry. The silver-haired elf's body had suffered tremendous trauma, and had more than enough reason to remain shut down for as long as it needed to heal itself. Whatever Aragorn had done had saved his life, but Celylith was weak and his injuries were still severe. And then there was the fact that they didn't know if he would be able to see or even speak or if Aragorn had managed to heal him sufficiently...

"No," Legolas summed up his thoughts. "No, he has not yet woken. But he will," he added, giving the ranger a confident look that, for the most part, was even genuine. "He is too stubborn not to. He just likes to make everything a bit more … dramatic."

"I see," Eldacar said seriously. "Lord Elladan spoke to me about that … how did he put it? Yes, that 'Silvan tendency to dramatise things'."

"He said that, did he?" Legolas asked, narrowing his eyes. "Well, Master Ranger, I will have you know that, contrary to the Noldor, the Silvan Elves in general and the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood in particular are remarkably level-headed creatures and that we…"

He was interrupted by the sound of a tent flap being thrown to the side and he turned around. Nestir, that healer Aragorn had seen it fit to burden him with, had insisted that he leave the tent for a while and rest in the sun, while Legolas had stubbornly refused to leave Celylith alone. In the end, the two of them had reached a compromise: Legolas would go outside and sit in the sun, and one of Nestir's apprentices, a lad who looked no older than fourteen but was probably only a couple of years younger than Aragorn, would sit with Celylith and keep an eye on him.

Considering the speed with which Nestir had given in, Legolas suspected that he had been tricked.

Said apprentice was right now rushing towards him – a remarkable feat since there lay only a distance of a few feet between them –, and came skidding to a stop. Legolas, who was no fool, had already climbed to his feet, throbbing side be damned, before the young man had even opened his mouth.

"My lord!" the young healer said hurriedly before giving Legolas and, as an afterthought, Eldacar a quick nod. "I must go and find Master Nestir immediately. Your friend is waking up!"

Thinking about it later, Legolas suspected that the two of them must have looked almost comical. Without another word, both of them turned on their heels and hurried off (or, in Legolas' case, lumbered off), the healer into the direction of Nestir's lai… tent, and Legolas towards his own. Eldacar said something behind him, but Legolas did not hear him. All his attention was fixed on the small, off-white tent in front of him and on what it hid from view.

Legolas did not remember entering the tent or moving to Celylith's side, but he must have, since he found himself standing over his friend's still body. The young healer had to possess the eyes of a hawk, he told himself as he slowly and painfully lowered himself into a crouch next to the other elf's bedroll. Celylith did indeed show signs of waking, but they were small and must have been almost undetectable to the eyes of a mortal. The other elf was still terribly pale, so pale that there was almost no difference between the colour of his skin and the pristine, white bandage that covered half his face, but his visible eyelid was twitching almost imperceptibly. What was visible of his friend's face was still slightly reddened, almost looking as if he had a sunburn, which Elves almost never did and which once again reminded Legolas how very wrong this was. Some of the deeper, more extensive bruises had not completely healed yet and were still visible, especially on his right cheekbone and jaw.

Legolas cast a quick look over his shoulder that made his still aching head spin. No matter how hard his head was, it had not been happy about having been clobbered so often in such a short time, and he was still feeling the after-effects. Right now, he didn't know if he wanted Nestir to appear or not. It would be better, surely, to have a healer close-by, even if he had almost no experience treating the Firstborn and…

Then Celylith moaned softly as he slowly made his way towards consciousness, and Legolas answered his own unuttered question as to whether or not he wanted Nestir here with an emphatic "No". Celylith did not enjoy being vulnerable in front of strangers, and strangers these people were, no matter how kind and friendly they were and what they had done for them. And besides … he had thought Celylith dead and knew just how close it had come to really coming to pass. It was a strange kind of jealousy he felt, but right now he didn't want anyone here who did not know Celylith, and maybe wouldn't have wanted them here even if they had.

Before Legolas could think of something to say – he was leaning towards the time-tested "Everything is going to be all right" –, Celylith opened his eye with a snap. It happened so suddenly that Legolas needed some moments to collect himself, and several more seconds before he could feel anything other than relief so strong that it made his knees weak. Because, no matter how pain-clouded and confused the look in Celylith's eye was, there was also recognition in his gaze.

Muttering a prayer of thanks which he hadn't spoken since, not all that long ago, Aragorn had managed to survive almost-drowning, almost-bleeding to death and almost-suffering from any other kind of injury known to man or elf, Legolas leaned over his friend, not even trying to fight the face-splitting smile that threatened to rent his face in two.

"Celylith." The other elf's name came out more as a whisper than anything else, and Legolas collected himself and tried again. "Celylith, Eru Ilúvatar be praised."

Celylith seemed to process his words for quite a long time. After several heartbeats, he seemed to realise that yes, he was indeed called Celylith, and that Legolas was therefore most probably speaking to him.

"Wha…" he began, wincing at the roughness of his voice or the pain that uttering the simple sound had caused him.

"Hush," Legolas interrupted him, the order less stern than he would have liked due to the fact that, no matter what, he simply could not stop smiling. "Don't try to talk, Celylith. You have been grievously injured. You have been asleep for over three days."

This information took a lot longer to reach the other elf. Legolas was already debating if he should go and find Nestir when Celylith tried to surge upwards, sudden panic laying itself over his features. He was instantly glad that he hadn't called for the dúnadan, since Celylith got exactly an inch and a half off the ground before he collapsed again, crying out in pain.

"Don't!" Legolas called too late, trying to restrain his weakly struggling friend with his left hand, something that his injured side did not appreciate in the slightest. "Celylith, stop! We are safe, everything is all right!"

"No!" the other elf brought out, almost hyperventilating with the effort of mastering the pain that must have been stabbing through him at every minute movement and trying to get up and away. "I … don't, please! Don't do this!"

There was a rustling behind Legolas, sounding as if someone was poking his head into the tent, but he did not pay it even the slightest attention. Celylith's strength seemed to run out, causing him to collapse into the pillows at his back, and Legolas seized this chance to let go of the wrist he had captured and placed his good hand against his cheek.

"Celylith," he said insistently. "_Daro sen! Lasto enni. In yrch gwainn. Ú-naegrathar le egor enni. Estel ah i-'wanûn ven hirnir. Men beriennin._"

"_Law_." Celylith weakly tried to shake his head, only to stop and grimace in pain. "_Law … anírar naegrad…_"

"Celylith," Legolas tried again. "_Istach avathon trenad ului bith althenin, mellon nín. Men beriennin. Estelio nin_**.**"

The Sindarin words finally managed to achieve what Legolas' previous assurances had not. For a long moment, Celylith stared at him, indecision and confusion on his face, but then all strength seemed to leave him, along with what little colour had suffused his cheeks.

"Valar," he muttered, his one visible eye closing for a moment. "Legolas?"

Legolas smiled again, a little tremulously this time, and slowly withdrew his hand.  
"Who else were you expecting? That artist from Rivendell in whom you are ostentatiously not interested?"

"If only." Celylith smiled thinly, or rather started to, before the pain seemed to register. "What..."

"They found us," Legolas repeated. "Just as I told you they would."

Celylith frowned, something that Legolas could understand. He, too, had only the vaguest memory of speaking to Celylith in the orc cave, or rather, trying to comfort him in the brief seconds that they had been together and both conscious. It was a fragmentary memory at best, but he was rather sure that "They will find us" had been mentioned.

"Are you…" the silver-haired elf began, grimacing, "Are you … all right? Your hand…"

Legolas, who had grasped the cup of water standing on the makeshift nightstand, only barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Yes, Celylith, I am all right," he said as he helped the other elf take some slow sips of water. They must have made a right picture, he thought later. As Aragorn would have said: The half-dead one helping the three-quarters-dead one. "I wasn't, but now I am fine. I am more worried about you."

Celylith raised his – quite singed – eyebrow in a way that was clearly meant to say "Who, me?". The pallor of his face and the lines of pain around his mouth and eye, however, made it rather ineffective, and he seemed to realise it, too. Besides, Legolas had a very clear memory of the last three days – well, the last two, really, since he had been mostly unconscious for the first –, and could recall every time Celylith had clawed his way up from unconsciousness. He had been confused and half-delirious with pain, and this was the first time he had been awake for longer than the minute it took the healers to make him drink another dose of pain medication.

"What happened after…?" The silver-haired elf began, automatically raising a hand to his bandaged face and interrupting his train of thought.

"Estel took Haldar and some others and searched for us," Legolas finally replied, resigning himself to the fact that Celylith would not rest until he had heard the whole tale. Sighing inwardly, he took the other elf's hand and pressed it back down. "They found us, staged an insanely stupid distraction, and rescued us with the help of the twins. They brought us back to the camp and did what they could to heal us."

Celylith looked as if he had only understood half of what he'd just been told, and Legolas decided instantly to gloss over certain details, like Aragorn self-destructively healing them as well as he had been able, Halbarad and Cemendur disappearing or most of the Ranger camp, including Aragorn and the twins, having left to try and rescue them. There would be a time and place for that. Later.

"What about … my eye!" This was the closest to panic Legolas had ever seen his friend off a battle field, and he was so stunned that he only just managed to catch his hand again that darted up to touch his face. It was a sign of how badly off Celylith really was that he had needed several minutes to truly comprehend what the bandage encircling his head meant. "What…"

"Be calm," he said in as firm a voice as he could, squeezing the other's weakly moving hand. "Estel said that there is a good chance that you will see as well as you always did. You will need time to heal, a long time, even, but you will."

"A good chance," Celylith repeated blankly.

"A very good chance," Legolas amended. "Celylith, I will not lie to you. The burns were deep and extensive, you know that yourself. But Estel and the twins did what they could, and they are confident that, with time and care, you will recover."

"But … no promises."

"No promises," Legolas admitted. "There are never any promises, Celylith. But we will do what we can." Celylith nodded, but Legolas could see the dark shadow of doubt and fear in his eyes, and so he tried to change the subject. "Your leg is doing as well as can be expected," he continued, setting the cup of water back down. "When I first saw it … You shouldn't have done that, Celylith."

Celylith looked back unrepentantly, the pain lines around his mouth deepening. He quite well knew what Legolas was talking about: Back when they had been ambushed, he had thrown himself forward and into Legolas, getting him out of the way of almost certain death in form of an orc scimitar. Granted, he had pushed Legolas' off the path's edge in the process, but he had also saved his life – and left himself vulnerable and open to attack. It was what had caused him to be so badly injured, Legolas reasoned. Celylith was too good to let his leg almost be cut off by a few orcs.

"Yes, I … should have," the other elf insisted. "Would … do it again, too."

"I know that!" Legolas said almost hotly. Sudden anxiety threatened to choke him as he remembered the way Celylith had been lying on the floor of the dark cave, bright red blood seemingly covering his entire leg, and he tried to disguise it by fussing with the bandage encircling Celylith's head. Since he could move only one hand, it was rather ineffective fussing. "But I would that you stopped your attempts to protect me at having axes rammed into your leg!"

"…halberds."

"Pardon me?"

"…was a halberd," Celylith repeated obediently. "I managed to … get a … good look … at it."

Legolas only stared at the other elf for several moments, positively feeling how he deflated.

"You are impossible," he finally said, rather pressed.

"And you … alive," Celylith retorted with a smile, grimacing at the pain that the simple movement caused. "That is all … I ever … asked."

It was true, every word and every worrying connotation of it, and Legolas didn't know what to say. Keeping him alive had been all Celylith had ever wanted, something that both humbled and frustrated him. The other elf considered it his duty, was even right about it – he was a Captain of Mirkwood and Legolas was her prince –, but he was also Legolas friend, his _oldest_ friend. He had never wanted Celylith to sacrifice himself for him, but the other elf had done so numerous times, and had attempted it even more often. And, if he knew him at all, he wouldn't stop now that he had got the hang of it.

"We will talk about this later," he promised him, but there was no censure or rancour in his voice. "Once you are better, we will go ahead and review just which tactical manoeuvres are advised under what circumstances."

"Yes, my lord."

Celylith, fiend that he was, was still smiling painfully, Legolas noticed sourly. He had probably lost all ability to intimidate him about a thousand years and three near-death experiences ago. But there was one thing that still struck fear into the hearts of elven warriors everywhere, and Legolas was not above using it.

"I will get a healer," he said, giving his friend's hand a last squeeze before he slowly and painfully climbed to his feet, holding his wounded side. "You are in pain."

For a second, it looked as if Celylith wanted to protest, but in the end the promise of pain-free oblivion won out.

"Thank you."

Those were two of the words Legolas had very rarely heard from anybody – and that stubborn excuse for a wood-elf especially – who had just been informed that he would now be drugged into next week, and Legolas felt a renewed pang of worry go through him. If Celylith was this complacent, it could only mean that the pain was nearly unbearable.

Nestir was waiting just outside the tent, doing his very best to pretend not to hover. It wasn't very convincing – the man was too young for it, really –, but Legolas appreciated the privacy nonetheless. Hithrawyn, his father's master healer, would have barged in regardless the circumstances. Then again, Hithrawyn was another person who wasn't afraid of him at all. There seemed to be more and more of them lately.

"My lord?" the ranger asked, barely keeping the apprehension out of his voice.

He was a good healer, Legolas thought, and had probably also been told in great detail by Aragorn and the twins what would happen if anything should happen to _them_. Judging by that apprehensive look on his face, Elladan had done the talking.

"He is awake," he told him, completely unable to keep that stupid grin off his face. "He knew me and was coherent. He is in a lot of pain, though."

The healer nodded and hefted up a small leather satchel.  
"I have his next dose in here, my lord. I am most relieved that he is awake, but I see no reason to prolong his suffering needlessly."

Legolas nodded and stepped to the side, allowing the ranger entry. Nestir walked over to the pallet, put down his satchel and began to rummage through it while explaining in a calm voice just what he was about to do. Celylith answered his questions weakly but obediently (No, he didn't suffer any nausea, and _yes_, his face hurt), and Legolas seized the chance to slip out of the tent for a moment or two. Neither Nestir nor Celylith seemed to notice his short absence – which was astounding since he was being anything but stealthy at the moment –, and when he ducked back into the small space, Nestir was already packing up his things.

"He is doing well, all things considered," the healer said quietly, prompted by Legolas questioning look. "I will change his bandages later, when he is more deeply asleep. He really does not need to be awake for that."

"Thank you," Legolas said, giving the man his most sincere smile. Even considering his somewhat battered appearance, it was rather stunning. "How long...?"

Nestir gave his patient a quick look. Celylith's eye was still open, but his gaze was hazy and unsteady.  
"Two minutes at the most," he answered. "He is weak, and the dose I gave him was large. He should sleep for several hours."

"Thank you," Legolas repeated. All the slight annoyance he had felt for the ranger earlier today had disappeared, and he was in a very mellow mood towards him and the Dúnedain in general, be they noldorised or not. "I owe you a debt of gratitude, Nestir. I will not forget it."

"You owe me no such thing." Nestir, it seemed, had already got the hang of the healerly gruffness that most of their kind seemed to adopt sooner or later. "It was my duty, and my pleasure. And besides," he added, with a sly look at Legolas, "he is not completely out of danger yet, and neither are you. You need to rest, both of you."

Some of that mellowness disappeared instantly.  
"And I will, Master Ranger," Legolas assured him, using his best Yes-of-course-I-think-this-is-a-good-idea tone of voice he had perfected since he had started spending a prolonged amount of time among Noldor. "As soon as I have made sure that my companion is doing the same."

There was steel in his voice, and, as a ranger, Nestir knew when he was beaten and when a strategic withdrawal was called for.  
"Very well," the young man said, inclining his head. "I will return in a quarter-hour."

Legolas, who, through prolonged contact with healers and sons of Elrond, had acquired the same instinct, and gave in gracefully.  
"Of course. Thank you."

Nestir gave him a quick, slightly suspicious look (Yes, Elladan had indeed done the talking, Legolas decided), but bowed and took his leave. Legolas waited until he was out of earshot before he turned back to where Celylith was staring at the off-white fabric above his head as if it was the most fascinating thing he had ever beheld. Legolas, who knew just how much of that infernal herb of Aragorn's had been in what Celylith had just swallowed, suspected that it just might be.

"I have someone here who wants to see you," he announced, producing a small, black bag he had kept hidden behind his back. Nestir had seen it, he was sure, but the ranger had been too polite to comment on it. "A visitor, one could say."

With considerable effort, Celylith turned his head. The lines of pain on his face had thankfully smoothed out, but he was still horrendously pale and his eye was glazed. Two minutes had been a rather optimistic guess on Nestir's part, Legolas decided, feeling more relieved than anything else.

Confronted with Celylith's questioning look, Legolas opened the bag, suspecting that he looked like someone doing this against his better judgement, mostly because it was true. The bag opened with a soft rustle of fabric, and something small and black shot out of the rumpled fold of cloth and half-crawled, half-flew onto Celylith's chest.

"Oh," was all the silver-haired elf said, turning his head a little more so that his un-bandaged side faced towards the small, black bundle of fur and leathery wings. "Lúthien!"

The smile on his friend's face – while completely incomprehensible to him – warmed Legolas' heart, and even though his fingers itched to find a net and trap that … creature sitting on Celylith's chest, he found that he had to smile as well.

"I cared for her while you were asleep," he said, partly to head off a question he knew was coming and to distract himself from the sight of a bat that all but tried to rub its head against Celylith's weakly moving fingers. He was a warrior of Mirkwood, battle-hardened and not easily shocked, but there were things even he didn't want to see. A part of him was amused, however. Only Celylith could make a bat forget the fact that it was nocturnal and shied away from daylight, and be it only for a few minutes. "And yes, I fed her fish and all the flies she could eat."

"You … listened to me."

"Of course I listened to you when you were talking to me about her," Legolas said in mock indignation. "I might have thought that you were losing whatever good sense you still had – I still do, by the way –, but I listened."

Celylith's smile widened, turning less wispy and more real, even while his eyelid began to flutter. The two minutes were almost up.  
"How … how did you…?"

"Know where to find her?" Legolas finished his friend's sentence. "Come now, Celylith. I always knew where you were hiding her. The hollow tree was a good idea, though, I have to give you credit for that."

Celylith didn't say anything for a minute. Despite his best efforts, his eye was closing, and Legolas leaned forward and brushed his hand lightly over his friend's face.

"Sleep, Celylith. I will be here when you awake. And I will even take care of this abominable creature for you, but only until you get well. So you better should."

There was still that slight smile on the other elf's face, and just before he gave up the fight against unconsciousness, he declared, his voice firm, "I am … a very lucky elf."

Legolas sat at his side for long minutes, contemplating just how he would get that accursed bat back into its bag. Just before Nestir returned and forced him to rest, he decided that Celylith had been quite wrong. If there was anybody who was lucky here, it was most certainly him.

If there was an unluckier person in the entire Angle, Aragorn most certainly didn't know who they were. Granted, Ereneth seemed to get into his fair share of trouble, too, but really, nearly stepping into a bear trap or almost being hit by lightning were nothing compared to _this_.

Then again, Ereneth was involved in this, so maybe it wasn't that much of a surprise.

Next to him, Lhanton reached out with lightning speed and grasped Ereneth's reins, pulling his horse sharply to the right. The animal swerved dangerously to the side, narrowly avoiding the fallen tree half-blocking the road. Ereneth looked up from where he had been studying the map and gave the other ranger a quick nod of thanks before he lowered his head again, longish bangs falling into his eyes.

Aragorn sighed to himself. Now he was stuck on a patrol including the most brooding and the most accident-prone ranger in Daervagor's company. He was sure that the twins were somehow responsible for it.

To Ereneth's credit, it had to be said that he would probably have managed to avoid the log by himself. It wasn't that the other ranger was clumsy or self-absorbed; he was simply very, very single-minded. When there was something occupying his mind – like, right now, reading a map –, he had a hard time concentrating on anything else. The only one who seemed to be able to snap him out of it was his brother, who, sadly enough, was not here right now. It could be a very useful trait – Ereneth was, as Aragorn had found out, a very intelligent person, and his full concentration was a thing to be reckoned with –, but it could also get him killed one of these days. Aragorn hadn't yet seen him in battle since he had been unconscious (or at least incoherent) when Ereneth and the others had rescued Amlaith, Hírgaer and him, but if he acted only a little bit like this … well. Suffice to say that it wouldn't end well and that Hírgaer would end up killing someone in anger and grief.

If he knew him at all, most likely several someones.

"This is a waste of time," Ereneth announced just then. "There are no caves here. This map must be faulty."

"Oh, really?" asked the fourth member of their little troop, an eyebrow arched in a mixture of annoyance and dark sarcasm. Serothlain seemed to express this mixture quite often of late, Aragorn noted, when he wasn't busy looking disconcerting and forbidding. "Because it is so like the captain to send us on a potentially deadly mission with a faulty map. I am sure he replaced the other group's swords with wooden replicas to make everything a bit more interesting."

There was something wrong with him, Aragorn thought to himself. There had to be something wrong with him, because, just for a second and if everything had been different in almost every way, he could almost see Daervagor doing such a thing. Maybe the twins were right after all, and all this had addled his brain.

Ereneth didn't seem to see the humourous side of the comment. It didn't surprise Aragorn overly much; while Ereneth was actually quite an easy-going person, he – like Hírgaer – did not react well to personal criticism. Considering their history, it was almost understandable.

"I said 'faulty', not 'intentionally misleading'," he repeated, but seemed to be holding onto his temper. Aragorn very much suspected Ereneth was making an exception for Serothlain. After all, this was better than that deadly numbness during the days immediately following Ciryon's death. "And besides, not even the villagers were sure if there actually is a cave here."

"To be truthful," Aragorn interjected quickly before this could descend into something less restrained and far uglier, "half of them were sure about it. It was only that the other half weren't."

Lhanton gave him a quick smile, looking as if he was still keeping one eye on Ereneth's horse. There had indeed been some of the villagers who had said that, once upon a time, there had been a small cave system here, even though they had been equally firm that it had caved in many years ago. The rest of them had insisted that said cave system had been on the other side of the forest. Daervagor had done the only possible thing: He had sent out two teams in addition to the usual search parties. Few of them, however, believed that either of the two groups would find anything, least of all a cave.

"Just why are we looking for a cave anyway?" Ereneth asked. "They could be hiding somewhere else, too."

"And where, pray tell, would that be?" Serothlain retorted. "They are orcs, Ereneth. They cannot stand the sunlight."

Rarely had Aragorn seen a look that said more clearly 'No, really?'.  
"Thank you for reminding me of that fact," Hírgaer's brother said in a carefully calm tone of voice.

"He is right," Lhanton agreed. "They could be hiding in a house or a barn somewhere, or in an abandoned mine. Even a dense copse of trees would do, or a rocky outcropping. Or…"

"Yes, there are a lot of options, Lhanton," Serothlain interrupted him. "Thank you. And the answer would be: Because the captain said so."

Aragorn, who was one of the few people who actually knew why Daervagor insisted that they search for caves especially, remained carefully silent. What was he supposed to say, that he'd had a prophetic dream, had seen the death of one of their missing men and that Daervagor had chosen this particular moment to listen to him?

"The captain will have a reason, I would say," Ereneth finally said, doubt in his voice.

"Undoubtedly," Serothlain agreed firmly. "And even if there is no cave to find there, we might encounter a trail or another sign of their passing. A horde of orcs cannot simply disappear into thin air."

"We will find them," Lhanton told his friend, nodding. "Even if we do not, Lord Elrond's sons are with us. Their eyes are keen and see much. If there is a trail to discover, they will find it."

Aragorn made a mental note to mention this flattering comment to his brothers. Then again, maybe he wouldn't, at least not right now. The twins had spent more than three days looking for clues now, and the fact that they had found nothing did not sit well with them. They were not accustomed to failure of this kind, and he was sure he would be hearing about this for a long time after all this was over.

"Let us hope so," Ereneth said. "Because this map is bloody useless. I'm not even sure where we are supposed to be."

"Are we lost?" Lhanton asked, clearly alarmed.

"You would know, wouldn't you?" Ereneth smirked. "Last time you didn't even need a map for it."

Lhanton glared at the other ranger and made an anatomically impossible recommendation in Sindarin. Aragorn couldn't help but grin.

"Are we done now?" he asked, wishing to get back on track. "Because we are not going to find anything if we keep talking."

"We might," Ereneth injected darkly. "This way, we can't lose our way any more than we already have."

"If there is one thing I have learned over the past days, it is never to say such things," Lhanton said darkly. Aragorn couldn't have put it better himself.

"All right, that is enough," Serothlain, the leader of their group, finally announced. "Ereneth, give the map here. Lhanton and I will take point. Hopefully he has learned something from his little misadventure two days ago."

"That wasn't my fault," Lhanton protested, unperturbed. "If Tarcil…"

"It is never your fault," Serothlain said, spurring on his horse. "Lhanton! Today, if possible!"

The rest of them exchanged a look before Lhanton gave him a nod and followed the other ranger. Serothlain was alternating between brooding, vengeful silence and irritation that lurked so closely to the surface that Aragorn was sometimes not sure what to say to him in order not to anger him. The others tolerated his moods, knowing it for the grief and pain they really were, but Aragorn knew that it could be only a matter of time before one of them lost his patience. Tensions were running high and one could almost watch how tempers frayed. Three days of fruitless searching tended to do that to most people, and the Rangers were but human.

Not for the first time wishing that he had listened to his brothers and had remained in the village, Aragorn quirked an eyebrow at his companion and spurred on Ráca, following the other two rangers. Elladan and Elrohir had remained behind today and were most likely right now closeted away with Daervagor and the village council. He wasn't completely sure what they wished to discuss, but he thought it involved the planned move to a more secure location and the offer of help from Rivendell. And even though he had been a student of Erestor for long years, he hadn't developed that much of a love for diplomacy and negotiations so that he would willingly subject himself to it, especially when he had no official reason to even be present.

The last thing he needed was tip off their mysterious adversary by doing something he didn't even want – or have – to do. It would be frustrating, not to mention embarrassing.

And besides, it was rather nice to escape the twins' worried hovering for a while. They didn't _hover_, of course, just like Ranger did not eavesdrop or gamble, but it was seriously beginning to annoy him. They meant well, he knew they did, but it availed nothing and only awoke in him the powerful urge to strangle the next person who looked at him as if he would keel over any minute now. This morning he had almost bitten off Hasteth's head for asking him if he wanted a cup of water, and that was something that wouldn't have ended well. One, her fiancé was in a particularly foul mood today, and two, she was a healer. He knew better than to tangle with them unless he absolutely had to.

"So," he finally began, trying to break the silence that had descended, "why aren't you with your brother today, Ereneth?"

The other ranger gave him a look he had seen quite often lately, namely the 'What kind of question is that supposed to be?' one.  
"Because we are not joined at the hip?" he finally offered.

That was a valid answer, Aragorn had to admit that.

"I had noticed," he said wryly. "But you are seldom seen separately."

Ereneth smiled crookedly. His eyes looked more hazel than blue-gey today, even though Aragorn knew that that could change from one moment to the next. Ereneth's eyes were so changeable that Aragorn suddenly felt almost boring with his own grey ones that he saw in the face of every ranger around him.

"The captain sees it fit to pair us off most of the time," he said, quirking an eyebrow in a way that reminded Aragorn so much of Hírgaer that he had to smile. "Frankly, I believe it is so that that beloved brother of mine doesn't kill more people per month than he is allowed to."

"Oh?" Aragorn asked with an arched eyebrow of his own. "And how many are that?"

"That depends," Ereneth replied seriously. "If the captain and Haldar have a good day, about two or three. Orcs not included, of course."

"Of course," Aragorn deadpanned. "It seems a good decision."

Ereneth looked at him in a way that quite clearly said 'You have no idea'.  
"Hírgaer can be rash sometimes," he said as a manner of apology.

"To be honest, Ereneth," Aragorn said slowly, carefully weighing his words, "Hírgaer does not seem like a rash man to me."

And he truly did not. Hírgaer seemed to him like a man who watched his surroundings with that same, almost arrogant calmness that Aragorn found hard to bear from time to time. The only times he had the blond man lose his composure had been when he had felt his brother had been threatened or insulted. Then all that calmness disappeared, and the latent violence that was always so close to the surface simply boiled over.

"He isn't," Ereneth said with a small, wistful smile. "Or rather, he usually isn't. He only is when it concerns me. I have no idea what happened to make him this protective, but I have long ago realised that he is not going to change. So now I simply try to accept him as he is and not strangle him when he is being particularly annoying."

That sounded familiar, and Aragorn thought that Ereneth had judged the situation correctly. He did not know the two brothers exceedingly well, and he might find the Dúnedain a lot more puzzling than he was willing to admit, but he was sure about one thing: There was nothing Hírgaer would not do for his brother. And Ereneth, judging from the look of things, knew it, too.

"I know what you mean," he said, thinking of his brothers and what they had so often done to protect him. "It can be hard to bear."

"Aye," Ereneth agreed solemnly. "But they mean well."

"That they do." Aragorn nodded. "That doesn't make it any less irritating, though."

Ereneth nodded as well, eyeing their surroundings openly and Aragorn a little more covertly. They were travelling through a sparsely forested area at the moment that offered good visibility and scarce cover, which was why they were a lot more relaxed than they had been during their ride through the forest. The sun had made an appearance about an hour or so ago as well, turning what had started as a grey day into another beautiful one. Serothlain and Lhanton were riding maybe thirty yards ahead of them, talking to each other (or rather, Lhanton was talking and Serothlain was nodding or shaking his head). The brief minutes of relaxation wouldn't last much longer, however. The next stretch of dark, dense woods was only minutes away. If Ereneth hadn't got them lost completely – and Aragorn doubted that he had –, they weren't too far away from the supposed caves.

"Strange, do you not think, this sudden interest in caves?" Ereneth finally asked, keeping his eyes firmly on the road, just as they reached the edge of the forest. "There are several abandoned homesteads to the north of the village. Why do you think the captain is suddenly so fixed on caves?"

Aragorn adopted his very best blank look.  
"I am not Captain Daervagor, Ereneth. I cannot hope to answer that question."

For the second time in less than an hour, Aragorn was on the receiving end of the 'What a stupid question' look.  
"But you can speculate, Strider. We are warriors. We do little but speculate when we're sitting around the campfire."

Aragorn looked back, unimpressed.  
"And here I thought that Rangers did not speculate or eavesdrop."

"Do not believe everything they tell you, Strider," Ereneth advised him. "Any group of soldiers on Arda are worse gossips than a group of old women."

There was truth to that, Aragorn had to admit that much. Even elven warriors were prone to "exchanging information", as they liked to call it.

"That doesn't mean that I can read the captain's mind," he insisted, shooting Ereneth a quick look. Somehow he had the feeling that the control over this conversation was steadily sliding out of his grasp. "I would say that it is the best possibility there is. A mine or all the other options Lhanton mentioned earlier are possible, of course, but I think a cave is more likely."

And he had seen it, after all, had seen the still body lying on the uneven rock of a cave. But that was something he could not tell Ereneth, and something Daervagor hadn't been able to tell anyone else.

"Ah." Ereneth had the same gift as Erestor, namely calling someone a miserable, and, to make things worse, a bad liar with only one word. "Yes, that could be it."

Aragorn gave the other ranger a long look. He had not slept nearly enough for almost a week now and hardly dared close his eyes, and he was not in the mood to mince words.

"What are you implying, Ereneth? Because I am not sure I like your tone."

"I am sorry, Estel." Ereneth, Aragorn noted, did not sound sorry at all. "I did not mean to imply anything untoward, and did not mean to insult you. But … well, I find it strange. Would you not agree?"

Aragorn just looked at the other ranger. There was something in Ereneth's eyes that he found hard to read. It wasn't exactly menacing, but there was something … dark in his eyes, something almost afraid. Try as he might, he could not put his finger on what it was. What he knew, however, was that there was a trap lurking in that question, and that he did _not_ want to answer it.

Besides, the twins would have his hide should they ever find out about it.

"I do not know what to tell you," he finally said quite truthfully. "I do not find it overly strange, no. We have always searched all the caves we could find. Why would you think it had changed?"

Ereneth blinked, appearing surprised by this sudden development.  
"I do not know," he said slowly. "It is just so sudden. It is almost as if … someone had told the captain something. Given him a hint, maybe."

Aragorn felt himself freeze inwardly. There was no way, absolutely no way that Ereneth knew about the dream. Yes, he had had it again last night, something that both he and his brothers had half-expected, but he was sure that no one had noticed. Haldar and the captain knew, of course, but no one else. It had been every bit as bad as the first time, thankfully minus the entire Talking-to-the-shrouded-menacing-enemy part. He had woken up covered in cold sweat and shaking so badly that it had taken the twins more than five minutes to calm him down.

But he had remained in his room the entire night, feigning sleep, and had not breathed a word about it, and neither had the twins or Haldar and Daervagor. He had behaved as he always had. He had been _careful_.

"You are seeing shadows where there are none," he said brusquely, trying not to show how shaken he was. "I am sure we would have noticed if the captain had talked to a mysterious informant, don't you think?"

"Yes, of course." Ereneth sounded genuinely chastened. "It was just a flight of fancy anyway. Forget what I said."

Aragorn was sure that he would not forget what Ereneth had said, but he inclined his head in agreement. He was more than happy to let this matter drop.

"Let us catch up with the others," he said instead, spurring on his horse. "The woods are getting thicker, and if we get lost, Lhanton's reputation will forever be ruined. I don't think he would be able to stand it."

"And we can't have that," Ereneth agreed, following him. "He would never let us forget it, and would cheat even more than usual."

"I do not cheat!" Lhanton announced, turning back as he heard them approaching. "Serothlain, tell him."

"He does not cheat," the older ranger said obediently. "Strange as it may sound, I believe that it is all luck."

"Talent."

"Luck," Ereneth and Serothlain repeated in unison.

"Whatever it is, it is unfair," Ereneth added.

"Life is unfair," Lhanton retorted, a wide grin on his face. "Deal with it, or leave the companies and become a minstrel."

"Even then he would have to deal with life being unfair," Aragorn told them, working hard to shake off the mixture of dread-fear-almost-panic that was still clinging to him like a particularly insistent leech. "The majority of songs and tales are about nothing but life being unfair."

"Who would compose a lay about life being fair?" Lhanton mused, mock-serious. "It would hardly be compelling."

"There would be less dramatic developments, or if there were, they would be less likely to provoke sympathy," Ereneth agreed.

"As much as this philosophical debate fascinates me," Serothlain began, "I don't think that anybody will feel very much sympathy for you if you do not end said debate soon, because I will strangle you and it will be completely justified."

Lhanton looked rather unimpressed at his friend's outburst.  
"It always provokes sympathy when the handsome hero dies."

For the first time in many days, Serothlain truly laughed. Lhanton looked as if he had received his _Yestarë_ present early.

"You are not the handsome hero, Lhanton," Serothlain told his friend, still smiling faintly. "The annoying secondary character maybe, but not the hero."

"You are right," Lhanton said readily. The smile was still on his face, but there was something serious and maybe a little sad in his eyes. "I am not."

For a moment, Serothlain looked sorry, but before he could say anything, Ereneth, who had been taking point, stopped his horse and held up his left arm, hand clenched into a fist, the universal signal to stop. Serothlain was immediately at his side, Aragorn and Lhanton reaching him only a second or two later.

"What is it?" Serothlain asked, his attention divided between their companion and their surroundings. "What do you see?"

"No caves, if that is what you mean," Ereneth said, not meeting Serothlain's eyes. "I honestly don't believe that there even _are_ any caves."

"Ereneth!"

"A trail," the other ranger said, nodding to the right. "Over there. Do you see it?"

Aragorn immediately saw what the other ranger meant. Over to the right, half-hidden by large, green ferns growing in large clumps around the thick trunks of the trees, was a thick, dark line that even the most inexperienced person would have recognised as a trail. It wasn't excessively broad, but it looked deep, as if several person had used the same trail.

Within a few seconds, all of them had jumped off their horses and were crowding around the the mark.

"It is deep," Serothlain confirmed Aragorn's earlier thoughts. "Made by at least five people, if not more."

"More," Aragorn said, squinting at the dark marks in the dim light. "Seven, I would say."

Ereneth had somehow managed to get the map back and was studying it intensely.

"Ah, that is where we are," he said, more to himself than to the rest of them. Aragorn looked at him, a little incredulous. He was beginning to understand what Hírgaer had been talking about when he had said that his brother was easy distracted. "The woods around here are dense; I remember training in this area. There are more than enough hiding places close-by."

"That is wonderful, Ereneth," Lhanton said distractedly. "There is another set of tracks over here."

"Does it belong to the first one?" Aragorn asked.

"I do not think so," Lhanton replied. "They lead into the same direction. And the trail was made by fewer people, four at the most."

"That makes at least ten."

Serothlain, Aragorn noted absently, was one of those people who liked to state the obvious when they were stressed.

"Ten _orcs_," Aragorn stressed, and pointed at faint impressions around the footsteps. "Armoured, spiked boots. I have yet to see a man who wears them. The trail is not old, a few hours at the most."

"Right," Serothlain said, pressed. He might have liked to state the obvious, but he was not an idiot, which became clear as he turned back to Ereneth, determination in his eyes. "Ereneth, you return to the village. Stay on the road, stay alert, and if anything happens, spur on your horse and get back to the others. Inform the captain of what we have found."

"Serothlain," Ereneth began, "I do not think that splitting up…"

"We are not splitting up," Serothlain cut him off in mid-sentence. "We are sending back a messenger to inform the captain and the others that we are following the trail with all due caution and will retreat at the first sign of trouble. The trail is not fresh, and we are forewarned. Someone has to go, Ereneth. You can lead them back here, if … well, we know that the maps are useless."

What he had really wanted to say was 'If we do not return', and all of them knew it.

"Serothlain…" Ereneth tried again.

"Stop arguing with me, you stubborn half-Rohír, and go," the other ranger said, smiling not unkindly. "Besides, Hírgaer would kill me should anything happen to you."

Ereneth glowered at all of them and muttered something in the language of his mother's people that sounded not very friendly. With an arctic look at Serothlain he stalked back to his horse, long legs eating up the distance in a few seconds. He swung himself into the saddle, and before he turned back the way they had come, he directed a last glare at them.

"Should anything happen to _you_, Hírgaer is going to be the least of your problems," he told them.

"Promises, promises," Lhanton said, waving his hand dismissively. "Go already."

And Ereneth did, looking very much as if he was doing this against his better judgment. The rest of them watched him go for a few moments until he rounded a large tree and disappeared from view. Serothlain squared his shoulders and turned back to Lhanton and him. There was something intense about him, about his stance and the expression in his eyes, and Aragorn was sure that he was not imagining the way the other ranger's hand inched closer to his sword hilt.

"All right," Serothlain said. Aragorn had the sudden mental image of him rubbing his hands in anticipation. "Strider, you take point. And I meant what I said to Ereneth; we are doing this by the book. At the first sign of trouble, we retreat."

Lhanton gave Aragorn a quick look that made Aragorn immediately suspicious. It looked a lot like the 'Poor, helpless little _adan_' look he had got so many times over the years, mostly by elves millennia his senior. It was somewhat disconcerting to see it on the face of someone barely older than himself.

The twins had got to him, he was sure about it. Considering that he had watched them the entire time – or had thought that it had been the entire time –, it was quite an achievement.

"Serothlain," Lhanton began predictably enough. "I could take point. I am…"

"What is going on today?" Serothlain asked with understandable irritation. "Is it 'Question Serothlain's leadership' day?"

"No, of course not," Lhanton demurred. "But…"

"No," Serothlain said. "He has got the best eyes out of the three of us. He takes point."

Aragorn didn't really know what was going on here, because this was not only about who was taking point. It was also about it, of course – Eru alone knew what the twins had threatened Lhanton with –, but there were undertones that he did not understand. He was beginning to think more and more that Legolas was right: Rangers were strange, and getting stranger. He didn't know if he would ever truly understand them, and found himself fervently wishing that they were as easy to understand as Elves.

"It is all right," he said, giving Lhanton a hard look to let him know that he knew that he had given in to the twins. "I will stay close."

"You better should," Serothlain retorted solemnly. "Lhanton, keep an eye on that trail of yours."

"Yes, sir."

"And stop mocking me."

Lhanton was anything but an unobservant man and therefore chose this moment to remain silent. The three of them fetched their horses and began to follow the tracks, Aragorn riding in front and hanging half down Ráca's flank when the trail was temporarily obscured by the brush or became unreadable when leading over rocks.

"This is strange," he finally commented, half to himself. They had been riding in silence for over half an hour, following the twisting trail deeper into the forest. He glanced over at the smaller trail to the right, puzzled. "That set of tracks is deeper than it ought to be. I think they were carrying something heavy."

"Like what?" Lhanton asked, eyeing the trail warily.

"I don't know," Aragorn admitted. "But there are a lot of clipped branches and broken undergrowth, even a lot for a group of orcs. They did not have their hands free to bend the branches out of the way, so whatever they carried, it was bulky."

"A battering ram?"

Serothlain, Aragorn noted, was also someone who liked to jump to the worst possible conclusions. He really had to introduce him to Glorfindel one of these days.

"I rather doubt it," he said, turning around to look at the older ranger. "They would need more than four to carry it. And…"

He trailed off and suddenly turned back, shocked into silence. They had reached the edge of a small clearing that hardly deserved the name; the trees were simply not standing as closely together as before, and several large, high trees were casting deep shadows over the small, open space. As their luck wanted to have it, it was not empty. There was a bundle lying on the ground almost in the middle of the clearing, covered with a torn, stained cloth.

Aragorn turned to look at Serothlain, but he had hardly moved when a sudden pain knifed through his head, making further movement – not to mention speech – impossible. For a split second, he saw what he had seen for the past two days, namely the still, broken body lying on the rocky ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The image became the clearing they had just entered, even though he was sure he had not opened his eyes. Then the pain crested and … suddenly was gone.

Not quite believing his luck, Aragorn opened his eyes, finding that he was swaying in the saddle and that the buzzing sound in his ears was partly his rapid heartbeat and partly the anxious voices of his companions.

He wanted to turn around to reassure them and tell them that he was all right, but a movement at the far side of the clearing caught his eye. It was nothing more than sudden _shifting_ in the brush, fragile branches bending and cracking under a sudden weight placed upon them, and Aragorn felt more than saw the figures moving in the undergrowth, stealthily blocking off the exit opposite them.

He didn't have to turn around to know that the cracking sounds around and behind them meant that they were surrounded. By the time he had reached for his sword, the first orcs stepped out into the open, snarling their defiance, and Aragorn bit his lip as he yanked his weapon out of its sheath.

"This," he said to himself, his voice pressed, "is going be very painful."

Annoyingly enough, he was right.

**TBC...**

_pen-dithen (Sindarin) - little one  
muindor nín (S.) - my brother (by blood)  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
__Daro sen! Lasto enni. In yrch gwainn. Ú-naegrathar le egor enni. _ _(S.) __ - Stop this! Listen to me. The orcs (are) dead. They will not harm you or me.  
Estel ah i-'wanûn ven hirnir. Men beriennin. __ (S.) __ - Estel and the twins found us. We (are) safe.  
Law … anírar naegrad… __(S.) __ - No ... they wish to harm...  
Istach avathon trenad ului bith althenin, mellon nín. Men beriennin. Estelio nin. __(S.) __ - You know that I will never lie to you, my friend. We (are) safe. Trust me.  
Yestarë (Quenya) - 'First-day', the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March.  
adan (S.) - human, man _

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So, yes, Aragorn is (finally, as some of you would say - don't look so innocent back there, people! You know who you are! •g•) in trouble, and he and a lot of other people are unhappy about it. Not counting Skagrosh, of course, who is very happy. Someone has to be, I guess. So, this and more in the next chapter, which should be here before the 5th of June, because that's when I'll be leaving. So, take heart. Only a month maximum this time. •sheepish smile• Reviews are appreciated and petted. Thank you!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**FF-net has made it harder to access the email addresses on the profile pages, but I prevail. At least my method of replying to reviews via a big group email they won't take from me! •shakes fist• Since I can only reply if there is a valid email address listed on the profile page or it is expressly mentioned in an anonymous review (only in the designated space, people, since it's usually unreadable otherwise), I have to apologise to Tatsumaki-sama and Ne'ith5 for not including them in the email. Sorry again, guys! **


	24. The Precision of Dread

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

I won't even try to make excuses. I passed my exam and am trying to forget that I have another one as soon as I get back home, but all the work was really worth it. I practically lived in the library for weeks, though. •grimaces• And ... well, let it suffice to say that Jerusalem can be a very weird place, especially if you live in the eastern part. I've had a few experiences I'd rather not repeat, even though it's mostly really a lot of fun. My work is ... well, interesting for the most part, even though I have to catalogue a lot of old documents and photographs. It's amazing what some people keep – it's really like "Oh, a sheep." "Look, another sheep." "That sheep again, but from the left." and so on. I am not kidding you. Oh, and I've got a new notebook, which I love with all my heart. Say hello, notebook! •notebook waves•

Ah, yes. So, I am keeping busy (with sheep and other things, like working at the local café, playing volleyball and seizing every opportunity to go to Tel Aviv). The future isn't looking all that certain and organised yet either, since I am going on a dig in Portugal right after my stay here. The thing is that it's rather likely that we'll do another campaign in Rome, so I might go straight there from Portugal (about which my boss there wasn't really happy, let me tell you). It's all still being decided, but I really hope it works out. I would love to see everybody again, plus we might figure out how that fireplace got on top of the city wall. Besides, Rome in September – is there anything better? I don't think so.

Be that as it may, here's the next bit, namely chapter ... what is it, 24? Sounds about right. So, to make up for the ridiculously long delay, this chapter is extra-long and extra- ... well, let's call it "interesting", shall we? Aragorn gets into trouble, Lhanton realises a little too late that he really doesn't have to listen to anything he says, and then Aragorn proceeds to REALLY get into trouble. The twins are unhappy, but Skagrosh is as close to giddy as an orc can get, so I guess that's okay, then. Legolas is torn, Celylith is smug, and my alter ego is gleeful, since we have some really ... "interesting" whump coming up. Meaning: Yes, this fic is PG-13. Not my fault. Blame my alter ego. (Besides, I know you love it.)

Oh, and: No horses were harmed in the process of writing this chapter. Seriously. Scout's honour.

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 24

He really had to stop being right all the time. It was – if you wanted to believe people like Legolas or the twins – annoying, and, if he was completely honest, also slightly inconvenient.

Especially if you found yourself surrounded by orcs. Then again, to connect "surrounded by orcs" to "this is going to hurt", you didn't have to display any common sense at all. It was a self-evident conclusion.

Besides, being surrounded by orcs seemed to happen to him rather regularly as of late. Now that he thought about it, it was positively disconcerting.

There were many, many more disconcerting things going on in his life at the moment, however, one of them being a scimitar that he only just managed to block before it could cut his left leg off below the knee. Still struggling to recover from the shock of being set upon by orcs – again –, Aragorn knocked the orc's blade aside and lashed out with a booted foot, sending the creature stumbling backwards and into two of its companions. Under any other circumstances, the three of them tumbling backwards in a tangle of arms and legs and appropriate, outraged shrieks would have been amusing.

These circumstances, however, were most definitely not the ones he found himself facing right now.

Having gained a very temporary reprieve, Aragorn surveyed his surroundings, absently trying to calm Ráca who was stomping her hooves and snorting, her eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. And, just for a second, Aragorn was truly tempted to copy her behaviour, because it was the only truly appropriate reaction to … this. This, as it turned out, was a complete catastrophe, and, Morgoth take it all, he really didn't know how he did it all the time.

They weren't at the clearing's edge anymore, trying to keep the orcs at bay, mainly because they had been backed _into _the clearing step by reluctant step. By now they were forming something that, with a lot of goodwill, you could probably call a "defensive circle", but which was actually more a desperate cluster than anything else.

The maddening thing, Aragorn decided while he urged Ráca to the side in order to close the gap to Lhanton that was opening up while the other ranger prevented Serothlain from being skewered through the stomach with a pike, was that there weren't even all that many orcs. There were maybe fifteen or so – not bad, considering that they had started with surely eighteen or more (yes, well, reading tracks was not an exact science). The problem, however, was that these orcs knew what they were doing, something that his brothers, Legolas, Celylith and the rangers who had fought the group on the road had already complained about.

It was not only inconvenient and possibly deadly, it was also _wrong_. Orcs were many things, but skilled fighters was not on that list. Lethal, cunning opponents who would cut you down through trickery, stealth and brute force, yes, but not skilled. They would swarm you and overwhelm you or, in the case of the larger, darker breeds coming up from the south, overpower you, but they did _not_ outfight you.

This, Aragorn concluded for the second time in less than three minutes, was going to be very, _very_ painful.

Something swished past his face, automatically making him duck, and for a second Aragorn thought that it had been an arrow. It hadn't, though – one of the orcs swarming around him had tried to incapacitate him with a throwing knife and missed him by a good foot or so –, and Aragorn swiftly made sure that the orc in question didn't have any more bright ideas. The creature went down, uttering something between a snarl and a gurgle, but another one took its place immediately.

The brief contact taught Aragorn three things that he had been suspecting for some moments already, and now he forced himself to acknowledge them. One, they couldn't keep this up for much longer. These orcs worked almost as a unit, keeping to a battle plan, and that spelled ill for them. Against an organised foe, three against fifteen – no, make that fourteen now – were devastating odds. Two, they wanted to incapacitate them, and they all knew just what that meant. And three, if they got impatient and started using their bows, all of them were doomed.

He pulled his horse up and to the right, feeling an inordinate amount of satisfaction as Ráca's hooves hit an orc straight in the chest and sent it careening backwards. Aiming a discouraging swipe at the nearest orc, he urged his mount to the side, closer to Lhanton who was by now sporting a thin cut running down the entire left side of his face. A pike would leave that kind of wound, a part of him informed him instantly, probably having been thrust straight up before Lhanton had had time to get out of the way.

Lhanton, in between manoeuvring his horse to the side and lashing out at a particularly adventurous orc, glanced at him, a spark of wry humour in his eyes amidst the fear and barely suppressed panic.

"We really," he interrupted himself to block a blow aimed at his horse's neck, "We really should have seen this coming, shouldn't we?"

Aragorn could not deny it. They – or at least he, considering how often this kind of thing happened to him – should indeed have seen this coming. But he hadn't, none of them had, and now they were here, up to their neck in orcs and about two inches away from almost certain doom.

Valar, if this wasn't so utterly terrifying, it would be almost boring.

"So," he yelled at Serothlain over the dim of battle, trying with all his might to cling to his hard-won composure, "do we have a plan?"

"You mean staying alive doesn't count?" the older ranger retorted.

"Sooner or later they will get impatient," Aragorn explained as calmly as he could, only to interrupt and throw himself to the side, both to avoid a scimitar and to grasp the reins of Lhanton's horse to prevent him being skewered through the middle like a butterfly on a needle. Try as he might, he could not identify what kind of blade the orc was using, and considering that he had seen more weapons in his twenty-three years than most men saw in their lifetime, that meant quite a lot.

"And when they do," he went on as if nothing had happened, "they will start using their bows."

"And then," Lhanton finished his thought, having regained his equilibrium after almost having been thrown off his horse, "we will be completely doomed."

Aragorn was about to agree in no unclear terms when the orcs apparently decided that they had played enough with them. Without anybody giving them an order – yet another thing Aragorn added to his "Why these are no normal orcs and we're really in a lot of trouble" list – they pressed forward, crowding them and causing their horses to rear up in fear and panic. All of the animals had been trained for combat, of course – it would be rather inconvenient to have a horse that panicked at the first sight of an orc, not to mention embarrassing –, but there were limits to everything. Aragorn very narrowly avoided being unseated and managed to stay on Ráca's back more due to sheer luck than real horsemanship. Next to him, he could see Lhanton cling to his horse's mane with a curse that would have made any sailor blush with mortification, barely able to control his sword's downward swing and stop himself from cutting off his own foot.

Behind and to the right of them, Serothlain wasn't so lucky. His horse reared up, panicking, and before any of them knew what was going on, the ranger was sailing through the air and hit the ground with a reverberating and very final thud.

For a second, it seemed as if the orcs, too, were rather surprised by the effectiveness of their manoeuvre. A moment later, that brief moment was over, and only Aragorn's fast reflexes enabled him to get off his horse's back and to Serothlain's side a split second before the first orc reached him.

Aragorn honestly didn't know how he survived the next few seconds, especially as it seemed that about three fifths of the orcs immediately turned towards them and tried to kill them. He was completely occupied with fighting off the myriads of orcs that swarmed around him. Admittedly, it couldn't have been much more than maybe half a dozen, but all they seemed to do it back away for a moment or two before coming back.

He was losing here, he decided calmly as the first orc managed to slip through his defences and left him with a long, bloody cut to his left arm as a reminder. He was losing very badly, and Serothlain was not moving. Ráca was several feet away from them, lashing out at anything that moved, Serothlain's horse was nowhere to be seen, and it was highly unlikely that Lhanton would manage to break through the orcs surrounding him and come to his aid.

This was not good at all.

Aragorn managed to deflect the next blow aimed at him and ducked under the one after that, side-stepping the orc and ramming his shoulder into the gap between the metal plates covering the orc's shoulder and chest. The creature was lifted off its feet by the force and took down one of its companions as it was propelled backwards, thus giving the young ranger just enough time to whirl around and face his next opponent.

The next opponent turned out to be two large, snarling orcs. The first one swung a mace at him – a _mace_? Aragorn asked himself disbelievingly as he ducked under the swing –, which was really more menacing than practical. It took him only a few seconds to side-step the next, wild swing and bring his sword down in a quick, slashing arc before he ducked to the side again to meet the attack of the second orc who had nearly cut him to pieces twice already while he had been battling with the first one.

Due to luck and the deft application of a throwing knife, Aragorn managed to incapacitate his next adversary, but all feelings of elation were very short-lived as he heard a sudden shout. He looked up, shifting his feet for better traction on the blood-soaked ground. Just a few yards to the left of where he was standing protectively over Serothlain's unmoving body, Lhanton was just being pulled off his horse that was rearing up and kicking at any orc it could reach, whinnying shrilly. Aragorn couldn't help but stare as a wetly glistening spear tip appeared in the dark, gleaming coat of the horse's neck, shining dully in the dim light. It took him a second to understand that one of the orcs had rammed its spear through the poor animal's neck, just as much as it took the horse to collapse onto its rider. It gave two last, long shudders, weakly struggling to stand, before it lay still, blood slowly flowing from the deceptively small wound to its neck.

Aragorn tore his eyes away from the grisly sight and looked wildly about himself, aiming wide slashes at any orc not watching the spectacle. He had to help Lhanton, but as soon as he left Serothlain, one of them would ram a spear into _his_ throat and…

…and then Lhanton was suddenly there, scrambling to his feet, his sword in his hand and murder in his eyes. With a Dwarvish curse that Aragorn absolutely refused to even try and translate, he threw himself at the nearest orc that looked quite stunned that the ranger had recovered from his fall so quickly, or at all. The look of surprise was still visible on its face as it fell, throat cut from ear to ear, and Aragorn returned his attention to his own attackers, a small glimmer of hope pulsing through him. Maybe, just maybe they stood a chance after all, and if they were really lucky they might make it out of this alive.

He was being prematurely optimistic, as it turned out a second later. Lhanton had managed to close the distance between them until they were almost standing shoulder to shoulder, only a single pair of orcs still standing between them, when the other ranger suddenly dropped to his knees with a cry of pain. Aragorn barely had time to connect this to "he is hurt" and "oh, Valar, we are doomed" before he had to lunge forward, desperately trying to intercept a blow aimed at the other ranger's head. He managed to shove the orc's blade aside just in time, but the second creature seemed to have realised what was going on and that its chances had just doubled.

While he was parrying blows aimed at the two of them, Aragorn sneaked a quick look at the other man who was still on his knees, left hand clasped around left collarbone. Just below the bone a long wooden shaft protruded from the torn flesh, completely impaling the shoulder. There was blood trickling down between his shaking fingers, staining the arrow and the front of his shirt a dark red colour. The fingers still wrapped around the hilt of his black-stained sword were white and clasped so tightly around the leather-wrapped metal that Aragorn had to wince in sympathetic pain.

Aragorn sighed wearily as he shouldered yet another orc aside. Well, they had known that, sooner or later, the orcs would become impatient.

He barely managed to duck under the next attack, yet another shallow cut joining the injuries adorning his body, and the panic that had been bubbling just beneath the surface ever since they had entered the clearing reared up and refused to be quieted. Not taking his eyes off the next orcs pushing to get closer to them, he reached out blindly and found the other man's uninjured shoulder. Giving a strong heave, he pulled Lhanton to his feet, steadying him when he stumbled.

"Stay with me," he said almost brutally, fingers digging into the other man's arm. "Don't you dare lose consciousness now!"

"I am not about to," Lhanton said through clenched teeth, regaining his bearings just in time to drive back an orc that had managed to sneak up on them. "Morgoth's hammer, but they killed my horse!"

"I know, Lhanton," was all Aragorn could think to say, but he released his arm. "Can you fight?"

Behind him, Aragorn heard a snort, and for a short second he had to smile even despite the orcs crowding around them, hissing and promising them death and pain and despair, both in Westron and in their own hideous tongue.

"Yes," the other ranger simply said. "It is just my left arm."

"Good," Aragorn said, no matter how little he believed him, and shifted his weight onto his other foot as he had to pivot slightly to escape a blow aimed at his side. He retaliated quickly, doing his best not to move too much, but the slight movement was enough to upset Lhanton's hard-won equilibrium, and the other ranger needed a few seconds to compose himself. Aragorn pressed his lips together, looking from one snarling face to the next, and made a decision he had truly hoped not to have to make.

"Can you ride?" he asked in Sindarin, ignoring the unwilling hiss that rushed through the orc horde like wind rustling the leaves of a tree.

For a few seconds, neither of them had time to say anything as they had to fight off the next few orcs that became too adventurous, stepping over Serothlain's still body again and again as they moved in a rough circle, back to back.

"Yes, I can still ride," Lhanton finally said when they had a moment to breathe, the accent tingeing his Elvish made more audible by stress and terror and adrenaline. "Why?"

"Because we will get only one shot at this, only one possibility to make it work," Aragorn quickly explained. "I don't have time to explain, Lhanton. Just be ready."

"Ready for what?"

"This," Aragorn said calmly and _threw_ his sword at the nearest orc.

The creature was almost close enough to touch, and at this distance, the long blade worked just like a spear, no matter how ill-balanced it was for such a use. The orc collapsed with a gurgle, the still-trembling sword sticking out of its ribcage like a particularly gruesome flagpole.

For a second or two, the rest of the orcs simply stood still and stared. It had, admittedly, been a rather stupid thing to do – just who quite literally threw his only truly effective weapon away in a fight that had been developing so nicely? –, but these short moments of distraction was all Aragorn needed. Almost before the weapon had connected with his foe, he had raised a hand to his mouth and gave a loud, shrill whistle.

The thing that most surprised him, if he was honest, was that his stupid, foolish, _desperate _plan actually worked. Distracted as they were by the sight of their comrade lying on the ground with a trembling sword sticking out of its ribcage, the orcs noticed Ráca far too late. Any elven war horse knew what to do when faced with orcs, and so the first two were already rolling on the ground, moaning, before the rest of them caught on. Lhanton, Aragorn noticed while he hauled a still unconscious Serothlain up, had barely batted an eye, even though he was reasonably sure that even he had not seen this coming. The other ranger was keeping the orcs busy that were still only slowly realising what was going on.

He had no time to spare at all, and so Aragon simply heaved with all his strength and threw the other man over the horse's back. Ráca danced to the side as the weight was suddenly placed on her back, deftly brushing aside two more orcs, but Aragorn was hardly paying attention. Sweeping an abandoned orc scimitar off the ground, he slashed at one of the few orcs that had kept their wits about them. Having driven the dark creature back for the moment, he grasped the back of Lhanton's shirt and pulled him backwards, removing him from the immediate danger of having his head cut off by an orc that had been sneaking up on him from the left and pushing him towards Ráca.

"Up!" he simply commanded, turning his back to him to cover him as long as possible. The orcs were hissing at him, anger darkening their faces, and he bared his teeth at them in hatred and loathing.

Lhanton complied, even despite the arrow still impaling his shoulder, the smooth movements speaking of the fact that he was acting automatically, unconsciously replying to the firm tone of command that Aragorn had used. Aragorn would almost have smiled. One would never guess it by just looking at him, but there was really no one who could teach you to bark orders quite like Glorfindel. He had the rare gift of making even Quenya sound positively vicious and full of a clearly audible threat to assign the first person who questioned his authority to kitchen duty for a few decades.

He had never done it, at least not to Aragorn's knowledge, but that didn't seem to change the fact that, if Glorfindel barked an order, you jumped. He had even seen his father start to obey once or twice. Elrond always caught himself before he could, of course, and would then glare at the golden-haired elf for a few days, but even he responded to Glorfindel's orders.

Lhanton, perched on top of Ráca's back in a rather wobbly fashion, seemed to realise what he had done. Serothlain was deposited in front of him, lying across the horse's back like a very unconscious and unmoving sack of grain.

"What…"

"No time," Aragorn cut him off, his eyes widening as the orcs began to press forward once more, clearly intent on stopping them once and for all. He still didn't know where that archer was, but he fervently hoped that it or they would remain occupied for a little while longer yet. "Get him to safety; warn the others. Even Ráca cannot outrun them bearing three of us."

"No." Lhanton shook his head, weakly kicking at an orc who looked as if it was about to reach for him. "I will not…"

"You will _go_," Aragorn interrupted him, briefly tearing his attention away from the advancing orcs to give him the fiercest, firmest version of the _look_ that he could manage right now. "I will buy you what time I can. You are both injured. I will last longer. Go!"

Lhanton paled, and Aragorn winced inwardly. But they had no time for niceties, no time to pretend that they didn't all know what orcs did to their prisoners, and Aragorn did not wait for the other man to realise that he was right – or, possibly, that he wasn't. Ducking under a blow aimed at his sword arm and barely avoiding another, he ducked under Ráca's neck and emerged on the other side of the prancing horse, slashing at an orc who was caught completely off-balance by his sudden appearance.

"_Noro, bereth nín,_" he said in a low tone of voice, so low that no one but the horse would be able to hear him over the screeching of the orcs, and quickly petted her neck with a blood-covered hand. "_Mabo i maethyr nín na dhôr veriannen._"

Ráca did not like this order, that much was clear, but Aragorn had no doubt that, this time, she would obey. He whirled back around, prepared to face the orcs once more, when a blood-stained sword suddenly appeared in front of his eyes, being thrust at him hilt first. Without even thinking about it, he grasped it and brought it down in a wide arc, scattering the orcs once again for precious seconds.

Having bought them a little time, he chanced a quick look at the now sword-less Lhanton, who nodded at him with forced calm.

"I will want this back. It was my father's."

Aragorn couldn't help but grin a grin that was somewhere between real, surreal mirth and stark terror.

"Then come and find me, and you can."

"We shall. We _shall_, Estel."

"Good." Aragorn smiled, more brittle than he would have liked. Seeing that they were finally out of time, he turned away, towards the seething mass of armoured bodies and sneering, hate-filled faces. "Go!"

Ráca snorted and tossed her head, moving left while Aragorn ducked right. Half of the orcs went after her and the burden she carried, but it was only half of them, Aragorn rejoiced, and they didn't stand a chance in between flailing hooves, sharp teeth and the occasional kick that Lhanton managed to contribute. Coupled with the fact that he did his very best to make a nuisance of himself and throw his enemies into confusion, the dark horse was quickly gone, leaving him alone in the clearing with a handful of angry orcs and no way out.

He didn't waste any time looking for one anyway. He had known what he was doing and had known how this had to end, and his heart was a little lighter for it, no matter what. He just hoped that Lhanton and Serothlain would manage to escape, that they could reach the village and tell his brothers and Daervagor what had happened here, and that they would find him before he could start praying for death rather than rescue.

And all in all, he managed to hold them off longer than he would have thought. In the end, it was the rest of the orcs rejoining their comrades after having abandoned the pursuit that tipped the balance, and not even two blades being wielded with anger and desperation could stop them from overrunning him. White-hot pain stabbed through his right arm, making him release the scimitar no matter how hard he tried to hold onto it, and the pain coupled with a sudden weight crashing into him from behind sent him to the ground. Lhanton's sword went flying, and then there were a few minutes of confused, desperate fighting that ended just as it had to, namely with him being pinned to the ground by three or four hissing orcs.

Aragorn bucked and squirmed, trying to throw them off him, but they held on as tenaciously like an octopus holding on to its prey. He stilled instinctively when an orc walked up to them, stopping for a second to spit out a mouthful of black blood from where Aragorn had kicked it in the face. It looked like the rest of them, he thought, with ill-fitting armour and long, lanky black hair half-hanging into its maliciously glinting eyes.

There was a scar running down the side of the dark creature's face that curled into a gruesome parody of a smile when it hissed at him, the sound low and threatening as a snake's.

"You, little rat," the orc said in accented but understandable Westron, drawing back slightly, "are far more trouble than you're worth."

The kick he had been anticipating ever since he had seen the orc amble up to him connected with the side of his head, snapping it to the side. His vision greyed out and the gleeful sound of the orcs' laughter grew dimmer, and Aragorn had just enough time left for the thought that the orc had no idea how very, very right it was.  
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"You _left_ him?"

Only Elrohir's reflexes – quick even for an elf's – enabled him to get between his twin and his intended victim, and he only just managed to throw up an arm across his brother's chest and stop his forward momentum. Elladan could have pushed past him without too much trouble, but to Elrohir's relief he stopped, glaring first at the arm barring his way and then again at the object of his wrath.

Said object lifted his chin – an action of defiance that no one really thought to be anything but desperation – and squared his shoulders, face pale and pinched.

"Serothlain ordered me to leave them."

"And you actually obeyed?" Elladan asked incredulously with that dark, thoroughly devastating sarcasm that was nigh impossible to counter. Ereneth was almost as tall as an elf, but he seemed to shrink at least an inch on the spot.

"As a general rule," Daervagor said with deceptive, forced mildness, "I do not encourage my men to mutiny and disobedience, Elladan."

"They found a trail, an _orc_ trail, and thought it best to split up?" Elladan pushed harder against the arm restraining him, and Elrohir jerked him back without conscious thought. "You left your comrades to an orc ambush?"

Now that wasn't exactly fair, and all of them knew it. Ereneth hadn't left the others to an orc ambush; he – like them – hadn't even known about the ambush until Ráca had all but stumbled into the village, bearing two bloody and bruised and not very lucid rangers. Serothlain had never regained consciousness, and Lhanton had managed to cling to awareness only long enough to tell them what had happened before he had fainted from blood loss and sheer exhaustion. He had mumbled something about a body, but none of them had been able to make sense of his words. None wanted to draw the obvious conclusion, namely that one of the missing men was already dead.

In reality, it had been him who had left Aragorn behind, even though Elrohir didn't really blame him for it. Well, no, that was not true; he did blame him for it, but he also knew that the poor ranger hadn't stood a chance against Aragorn. When his little brother wanted something, he rarely stopped before he achieved it. Estel did not know it yet, at least not fully, but he instinctively knew how to command people. Lhanton had probably been on top of the horse and half-way to the village before he had realised what was going on, and most likely already at the gates when he realised that Estel had, in fact, no right to give him any kind of orders.

If anyone was to blame for that, it was Erestor and Glorfindel.

Still, the fact remained that Estel could be dead or dying right now, could be – _would be_ – in the hands of orcs who would enjoy breaking him bit by bit until there was nothing left of the man they called their brother, and Elladan needed to yell at _someone_. Lhanton was the most likely candidate, but he was not exactly up to receiving visitors right now. Losing consciousness had been an act of quite impressive forethought if one thought about it, really. And since it was not nearly as satisfying yelling at someone who couldn't even hear you, Elladan had rounded on the next person he could think of: Ereneth, who looked about as wretched as Elrohir had ever seen him looking.

"Elladan," he began, shooting Ereneth a look that was somewhere between anger and pity, "let us not…"

"No." Ereneth shook his head and side-stepped his brother, who had put himself between his younger sibling and the irate elves almost as soon as Ereneth and he had entered Daervagor's room. He was only two or three feet away from Elladan now, who was glaring at him for all he was worth. "He is right, my lord. Yes, I left them."

"Then you will understand that I am _not_ glad about your actions."

While Elladan's words were politely phrased, his tone of voice was positively arctic, and promising death and pain and doom in the very near future. Elrohir, who knew his twin as well as anybody could know another person, realised that this might very well end very badly. When Elladan was frightened, he lashed out, and while he, too, felt almost paralysed by dread and terror and a deep-seated feeling of 'Oh, Elbereth, let this be a nightmare', he also realised that it would help no one if he let his brother kill Ereneth – or any other ranger, for that matter.

Hírgaer, too, realised the danger his little brother was in and quickly stepped around him, once again placing himself between the younger man and Elladan. He placed a firm hand on his brother's chest and shoved him backwards before he turned to look at the older twin, appearing almost entirely unimpressed as the _look_ was centred on him in all its glory. There was a hint of fear in those calm green eyes, though, even though Elrohir somehow did not think it was fear of them, and his body was tense, as if he expected having to move soon and very quickly at that.

"This is _not_ helping," the fair-haired man voiced Elrohir's thoughts, some of that old arrogance of his bleeding through and awakening even in Elrohir the vivid urge to strangle him. "Ereneth, be quiet," he added, when his brother made as if to speak, not taking his eyes off Elladan even for a second. "None of this was his fault, and you know it."

"Oh, do I?" Elladan retorted. Elrohir absent-mindedly decided that he really did feel sorry for the poor words that were smothered in so much sarcasm that even non-breathing entities would have to suffocate on the spot. "Then why don't you enlighten me, Master Ranger, as to what I do and do not know."

Hírgaer set his jaw, refusing to back down. Elrohir had to admit one thing to himself: A coward the man was not. Slightly stupid or even suicidal, but not cowardly. It would do him no good – Elladan had dealt with far more dangerous creatures in his time –, but it was very brave.

Well, he was a ranger, wasn't he? Showing bravery when faced with impossible odds was almost part of the job description.

"I would not be so presumptuous," Hírgaer told Elladan coolly. "It is not my place to tell you what to do or think."

Elrohir wasn't the only one to notice that the ranger omitted all kinds of honorifics, and he rather doubted that it had been an accident. Elladan, it seemed, agreed with him.

"Oh?" the older twin repeated. "By all means, don't let me stop you, Hírgaer."

Something seemed to shift in the fair-haired man, almost as if something had come to the fore that was rarely – if ever – allowed to appear.

"Very well," Hírgaer said, inclining his head. How he managed to manage that without taking his eyes off Elladan or looking stupid in the process, Elrohir didn't quite understand. Then again, he was too busy figuring out how to stop this from descending into bloodshed to pay too much attention to anything but pressing his forearm more strongly against his brother's chest and praying that he wouldn't try to break free.

"My brother did what he had to do, what he was _ordered _to do," the ranger began. "Anybody with half a mind would have done the same, at least anybody with a smidgen of respect for the chain of command. _I _would have done the same had I been in his position, and I wouldn't even have tried to talk Serothlain out of it like he did."

"Now what does that say about you, I wonder?" Elladan asked softly.

"That I am the one who will survive to rescue his companions," Hírgaer retorted, his voice completely blank. There was suddenly a wry grimace on his face, like a shadow flickering over a still pool, there one second and gone the next, and if not for the man's next words, Elrohir would have sworn that it had never been there at all. "I can see how this might confuse you."

Elrohir pressed his forearm down harder, and added his second hand to jerk Elladan back, even though he was more and more coming to see his brother's point. Maybe it really would do Hírgaer some good if someone knocked his head against something hard. Repeatedly, if possible. Then again, maybe he should do the reasonable thing and poke them both with one of the candles to see if that couldn't make them stop behaving like a pair of idiots.

"You want to be careful with what you say to my brother right now," Elrohir advised the man, knowing that Elladan was actually too angry to utter a clearly articulated sentence. Judging by the deadly looks his brother was shooting the man, that might actually be a good thing.

If Hírgaer had been a cat, he would have flattened his ears and hissed, green eyes narrowing in anger.

"And you want to be careful with what you say to mine."

"Hírgaer, stop it." Ereneth finally managed to get a word in, using his superior height and longer reach to push his brother to the side. "It was my decision to obey Serothlain's order. _Mine_. Stay out of this."

"Indeed," Elladan managed to get out between gritted teeth. "Because I would very much like to..."

"Enough!"

Elrohir blinked, perplexed. He had wanted to say the exact same thing, so it wasn't that he was surprised that someone was tired of this, but ... well. He hadn't Daervagor expected to be the Voice of Reason. Then again, maybe it wasn't so strange after all. If Legolas could be the reasonable one, his old friend could be, too.

He wondered about whom exactly that said more, Legolas or Daervagor, and instantly decided that he would never share this contemplation with either of them.

Both Elladan and Hírgaer blinked at the captain, suddenly united in momentary confusion as their staring match was so suddenly and rudely interrupted. Unsurprisingly enough, it was a very short moment of harmony, and they soon went back to glaring at each other. This time, however, Daervagor joined this little stare-at-each-other-hatefully circle, and while he wasn't as good as Elladan at glaring at people – he was but human, after all –, he was still a force to be reckoned with.

"This will avail nothing!" Daervagor went on, pushing between the fair-haired ranger and Elladan. Elrohir eased the pressure against his brother's chest a little, but did not release him. "Every minute, every second we argue is one second more that Strider is in the hands of those creatures and one second more we do not use to track them. It is seconds we – and Commander Cemendur and Halbarad – do not have."

"Sir, I..." Ereneth began.

"No," Daervagor said with that calm, uncompromising air of his that had always set him apart from most of the men around him, ever since Elrohir had met him so many years ago. "You did what you had to, Ereneth, and no one contests that. You could not have known what would happen, and even if that was not so, you followed orders. You did the right thing."

"But you," he went on, turning to Hírgaer, "are far, far out of line, Hírgaer. Nerves are frayed and tempers short, I understand that, but rest assured that we will speak of this once all this is over. And you, my lord," he glanced at Elladan while Hírgaer bowed his head, chastened, "I would thank for not threatening my men."

Elladan pressed his lips together.

"Elves don't threaten. We inform."

"Then I would thank you to let them remain ignorant," Daervagor amended. "This is folly, and I will not have it. Ereneth, Hírgaer, join Haldar's troop. We will need your eyes, keen as they are."

"Yes, sir," the two of them chorused obediently, clearly doing their best not to show how happy they were about getting the opportunity to leave the room. There was a short, silent exchange between the two of them about who went first – in the end, Hírgaer gave in with a soft snort of disgust –, but then they were at the door. Just before he followed his brother outside, Ereneth halted and turned back, completely ignoring the two of them and looking at Daervagor with dark, completely unreadable eyes.

"I _am _sorry, sir."

"I know, Ereneth," Daervagor said in a tone of voice that rivalled Ereneth's expression in blankness. "So am I. Go find Haldar, and when you do, tell him to have the men ready in ten minutes."

The young ranger nodded his shaggy head and stepped over the threshold, softly closing the door behind him. Elrohir could hear him walk down the corridor after his brother, even though he walked very softly for a man his size, and when he was sure that the two of them were out of earshot, he turned to Daervagor, who hadn't moved a single inch since stepping between Elladan and Hírgaer. The captain was still wearing that blank, slightly shocked look that he hadn't lost even while telling the two of them essentially to stop and be quiet.

"I apologise for my brother, and for me also," he said, meaning every word of it. This had hardly been appropriate or even honourable behaviour. "But, as you can most likely imagine, this is..."

"A nightmare," Daervagor finished his sentence for him, shaking his head as if coming out of a deep and very unpleasant dream. "Valar, but what a nightmare."

There were a dozen of possible answers flittering through his mind, among them many an empty reassurance, but Daervagor would not believe any of them. Besides, he deserved more.

"Yes," he admitted, dropping his hand from Elladan's chest and suddenly finding that he hardly had the strength to remain on his feet. "It is a nightmare, and one we could have prevented."

"By disarming him and chaining him to a tree, yes." Daervagor's voice was tired, but quite serious. He hadn't known Aragorn for that long a time, not _really _known him, at least, but he had apparently come to realise one or two things about his character.

"He would have gnawed his way through the trunk," Elladan said. He only now seemed to realise that Elrohir had released him, and immediately started pacing.

"Most likely, yes," Elrohir admitted. "We have to go. Now."

"We can't yet," Daervagor said very, very tonelessly. "There's no use rushing off without proper preparation. We are not going to help anybody if we walk into an ambush."

"They won't be ambushing anybody for a while. They have what they want. Now they will want to get back to their hiding place to..."

"Enjoy their sport," Elladan finished his sentence. Elrohir had rarely thought it before, but right now he wished that his twin couldn't read his thoughts as easily as that.

"Yes," he echoed Elladan's sentiment. "They will do that, and we all know what that means."

"We do." Daervagor nodded his head, that utterly shocked expression not having faded at all. "But I will not risk the lives of my men in this fashion. They will have their allotted time to prepare and gather the things we need. In exactly eight and a half minutes, I will walk out of this house and lead my warriors as best as I am able, but not a single moment earlier."

Elladan looked at the man as if he had said something utterly obscene.

"This is Estel we are talking about. _Aragorn_."

"Yes." Daervagor turned with an abrupt motion and looked at them. "This is my chieftain we are talking about, and my cousin's son. A long time ago I promised Arathorn that I would do whatever I could – whatever it took – to protect his child. No matter what may have happened between us, no matter what you may think of me now, but to that oath I hold. If it were only my life, I would not hesitate a second. But it isn't. I am a captain of the Rangers, and I took another oath, an oath to protect and lead my men to the very best of my abilities. I cannot – and will not – risk their lives in such a manner. They know their duties and the dangers, but to force them to ride out head over heels and in a panic is foolish and irresponsible. I would not do it for any other of my men, I would not do it for either of you, and I cannot do it for him. I could not even do it for my son, no matter how badly I wished to."

The twins exchanged a look, and Elrohir exhaled, knowing that the man was right. Leaving in a panic and not thinking beforehand would be the worst thing they could do right now, and it would help neither them nor those they sought. There was nothing to be said against Daervagor's logic, not a single word, but somehow Elrohir still found himself opening his mouth, not really knowing if he wished to impress the full extent of the situation on someone who knew it perfectly well or because the dark images in his head became too persistent.

Maybe it was even because he wanted to give an excuse, an explanation. Elbereth knew they owed the man one.

"You know what happened to our mother."

It was not a question. Daervagor had not yet been born when their mother had been captured in the Redhorn Pass, nor his father or grandfather, but every ranger knew why the sons of Elrond pursued the orcs of Eriador with such relentless hatred. One should never confuse the Rangers' naturally respectful and restrained manner with ignorance or dullness. It was a mistake many adversaries had paid for with more than their prides.

Daervagor, while maybe a difficult man, was no coward, and did not back away from unpleasant conversations.

"I do."

"Then you know why she left," Elladan went on, fixing the man with an intense stare. "Why she could not stay with us, with her own family, and had to leave Middle-earth behind."

"I know," Daervagor said quietly, the empty misery in his eyes making way for a rare, visible flicker of compassion. "And I honestly cannot remember if I ever told you how very sorry I am for your loss."

"We will see her again, on the other side of the Sundering Seas," Elrohir said with a small, rather wobbly smile. "One day, we shall be reunited."

"And until then, we hunt her tormentors," Elladan went on, a cold light shining in his eyes. "And all other creatures of the Dark One."

"But what we understood a long time ago," Elrohir interrupted his twin, fighting against the old, dark mixture of pain-hatred-grief that welled up inside of him, "is that it is not going to bring her back, nor ease our pain. It is like a finger pressed into a hole in a dike – barely enough to keep the entire thing from dissolving. There is a small measure of peace to be gained by meting out justice, but it does not help you heal, or help deal with the pain and grief." He raised his head, looking at Daervagor. "I will not go through that again, Daervagor. I am not sure if I can."

The ranger stared at them, looking as if he wasn't entirely sure what he had just heard.

"Valar, you think I _want _to put you through this?" he exclaimed. For a second, Elrohir was quite sure that his old friend wanted to hit them. "You think I want to be responsible for the death of my best friend's son, and my friend, and _my _son? For all we know, Cemendur and Halbarad are long dead! If there was a way to save them, just one of them, I would gladly sacrifice whatever I possess, whatever I can give. But there isn't, and I..."

He broke off and shook his head, turning away. For just a second, Elrohir glimpsed an expression of such heartbroken despair on his face that he reached out and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"We will find them," he said, grasping for the old, comforting words he had so often spoken and so rarely believed. "We know what we are looking for, and we have Ereneth to guide us. They cannot hide forever. We will _find _them, Eru help me."

"Oh, undoubtedly." The words were bitter and hollow, and Daervagor very deliberately did not look at them. "And we will be too late again, _I _will be too late again. I will have failed them, and you, and your father. And, worst of all, I will have broken the most important promise I ever made to Arathorn. I will be the one responsible for breaking the line of the Kings."

"The Dark Lord has been working towards that goal for millennia," Elladan said in a very similar tone of voice. "He has never needed any help."

"What my charming brother means to say," Elrohir interrupted his twin, "is that, no matter what happens, it is not going to be your fault, and no one is going to blame you, neither us nor our father. And I am sure that Arathorn would not, either, were he here to see this."

"I blame myself," Daervagor said, in a tone of voice that suggested that this should be self-evident. "I lost my best friend's son to our enemy, and I never even..." He broke off, shaking his head. "It hardly matters now."

"Estel is not dead yet," Elladan said sharply. "We do not know what happened to him. And even if you are willing to give up on him and Halbarad and the commander just like that, _we _are not."

Daervagor seemed to freeze before he slowly raised his head and gave Elladan a look that was almost Erestorish in its dark and absolute disapproval. Considering that he wasn't an elf and had never spent more than a few weeks in Imladris or any other kind of elvish settlement, it was all the more impressive.

"Maybe you wish to repeat that to my face, _my lord_."

With an exasperated sigh, Elrohir pushed between the two of them, asking himself just which Vala he had insulted to be stuck as the peacemaker in a village full of aggressive maniacs. All things considered, it was something that would amuse Tulkas, that much was certain.

"No one is going to repeat anything to anyone," he said in a voice that brooked no argument. "We are all weary and afraid, but we must not take it out on one another. Estel is strong and stubborn, and he knows that we will come for him. He will hold on until we can reach him."

Daervagor averted his eyes, too polite to say what he really thought, and Elladan only gave him that look of his, the one that said that, no matter how naïve his little brother was, he still loved him. Elrohir couldn't remember if he had ever loathed that look more than in this very moment. Something inside of him broke at that moment, and instead of screaming as he so very much wanted to, he turned away, giving both the man and his brother a last, none-too-gentle shove.

"Those ten minutes of yours are almost up, Captain," he said, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath in an attempt to get that swirling, choking _fear _inside of him under control. "We need to get ready, and I am sure you will want to have some words with the men that are to be left behind."

"Indeed," Daervagor agreed, that blank mask once again firmly affixed to his features. "We will be waiting for you, my lords."

With a quick look at the two of them, Daervagor left the room, deftly snatching up his pack and coat that had been sitting on the rather wobbly-looking folding chair next to the door. Elrohir watched him go, focussing his eyes on the edge of one of the maps that Daervagor had crammed into the bag haphazardly in his haste. Even when the door swung shut behind the ranger's retreating back, he could still see the crumpled parchment and the faded lines upon it, and he was glad for it. Anything was better than the images dancing through his head, images of Estel's bloody face distorted by fear and suffering.

"I am sorry, _gwanûr_," Elladan said behind him, and Elrohir could feel him hovering on the edge of his personal space. "I should not have spoken to him thus."

"Leave it be, Elladan," he said, still not turning around. He was clinging to the fading impression of that map with all his strength, sensing that this act of concentration was the only thing separating him from utter panic. "It is over."

"I will not." Elladan's voice was calm and serious, and so much like their father's that Elrohir's breath hitched for a second. When did one stop wishing for the presence and comfort of one's parents when the world was coming crashing down around one? Probably never. "What you said was true, Elrohir. We will find him. You know that, don't you?"

"No, I do not know that," Elrohir retorted, angrily realising that the image of the map was gone, having been replaced by glimpses of pain and blood and fire. "And neither do you. They took him, Elladan, just like her."

"Don't say that." Elladan's voice was half-choked and as close to breaking as Elrohir had heard it in a long time. "Don't say that, Elrohir."

Elrohir only shook his head, unable to say anything at all. There was nothing to say, nothing that would not be a well-meaning lie and would not make him a hypocrite. There were tears of dread and grief and anger pricking at the insides of his eyelids, and he fought to keep them back. If he started to cry now, he would not be able to stop again, and most certainly not within the next two or three minutes until they would have to step out of this house to join the others.

As it was, he didn't have to say anything. He never had, not with Elladan. A moment later he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, and did not resist as he was pulled into an embrace. But not even that could chase away the horrifying images swirling in front of his eyes or the faint, remembered screams of their mother, cutting through his very being with terrible precision, and Elrohir closed his eyes as tightly as he could and buried his face in his twin's shoulder.  
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Aragorn stumbled, almost falling flat on his face. He was completely unable to catch his balance, fettered as he was. At the last second he managed to catch himself, half going down on one knee as he did it, wincing as he jarred his arm that seized this opportunity to once again let its discomfort at being treated thus be known. As quickly as he could, he scrambled back to his feet, already hunching his shoulders in anticipation of the blow to come.

The last twenty-odd times it had come, after all, so why should this time be any different?

It wasn't, which was a small consolation amidst the pain blossoming between his shoulder blades. If he had learned one thing concerning captivities of any kind in the past, it was that any deviation from the rule – no matter how terrible and painful a rule it might be – was a very, very bad thing. It usually heralded things turning from worse to worst.

Even though he had been expecting the whip cutting through what was left of his shirt, he was still thrown off-balance by the sudden impact which sent him stumbling forward once more. The leash that had been thrown around his neck in those confused, pain-filled minutes after he had been shaken back to consciousness tightened and cut off his breath as he had known it would, and he stumbled again, thus once more setting off the vicious cycle. This time, however, the orc holding the coarse rope looped around his neck simply dug its boots into the ground and yanked him back, nearly snapping his neck in the process. Aragorn was pulled to his feet once more, gasping for breath and seriously considering staying down this time. Pride was all nice and good, but he was fast approaching the point where he didn't care about appearances.

The orc grunted in annoyance and pulled harder, and Aragorn hurried to try and keep up, and be it only to avoid being choked to death. Then again, he admitted to himself as he was being dragged along, maybe being choked wasn't all that bad a way to go. He was a realistic enough man to know what was waiting for him once they reached their destination, and had seen enough of what orcs could do to know that choking to death was better by far than anything that would await him.

Unfortunately, he wasn't being given a choice. When he had regained consciousness, he had already been bound and dangling over one of the bigger orcs' shoulder. It had been the singular most terrifying situation he had ever woken up to, and in hindsight he was very glad that he had been too confused and in too much pain to do what he had wanted so badly when he had woken up: Scream very, very loudly.

This way all that had happened had been him being dumped to the ground. Before he had regained his breath, one of the orcs had pulled him to his feet and thrown a coil of rope around his neck, amongst the jeers and taunts of its companions. The rope had snapped taut and they had been off, and now, seemingly an eternity but probably only a few hours later, he thought he had reached about the end of his endurance. His head felt as if his brain was about two sizes too big for his skull, and his arm ... well, he couldn't see it since it had been quite brutally been twisted behind his back and secured with what felt like about a hundred yards of rope, but he was rather sure that it didn't look too good. Even if one discounted the bruises and cuts that grew more numerous by the minute, his side that he had thought healed had started hurting with a vengeance.

In his opinion, it was adding insult to injury.

His thoughts were wandering, he knew that, but it was actually better than paying attention to the dusty ground beneath his boots or the way the sparse moonlight caught on the orcs' metal armour. This way, he could bear the pain a little better, and the terrifying, choking knowledge of what they were most likely going to do to him – or, worse, what they were going to do if they found out who he was – was a little further away. Not much, because, really, no matter how you tried to rationalise it, you were rather doomed when you...

"Daydreamin' again, _tark_?"

And then there was that. If Aragorn hadn't been exactly one inch away from losing his composure and descending into panic – the gibbering kind, too –, he would have been annoyed. Not even orcs were exempt from gloating and giving bad speeches. In another world, it would have made them less terrifying.

Aragorn did not answer. Answering made everything worse, that was another thing he had learned early on.

It did not please the orc that had posed the question. Considering that there seemed to be little that pleased the creature, Aragorn didn't feel overly bad about it. What he felt bad about was the orc grasping his leash from the other one holding it and pulling him towards it, especially since it almost sent him into unconsciousness.

"What, nothing to say, pretty boy?" the creature sneered at him, thankfully and cheerfully oblivious to the fact that Aragorn could barely hear it over the loud rushing of blood in his ears. "You were so happy to talk earlier, weren't you?"

That wasn't entirely true, Aragorn thought fuzzily while he struggled for breath. Yes, maybe he had made one or two completely innocent remarks, but that had been about it. It hadn't been the best of ideas either and had brought him nothing but a cracked rib and a very nice, soon-to-be-black eye.

"Let him be, Grashók," the orc who had been dragging him around for the past few hours all but whined. Aragorn, close to passing out as he was, found it immensely funny that orcs actually whined. "Accursed sun's gonna come up soon. If we don't hurry, we won't get to the cave in time."

Grashók was apparently able to do two things simultaneously without too much trouble. Without letting go of Aragorn's leash, he lashed out with his other fist, hitting the other orc right in the face. It screeched quite satisfyingly as it flew backwards, crashing into another one, but Aragorn was too busy gasping for breath to care overly much.

"I'll do whatever I damned well please!" Grashók roared, shaking Aragorn for emphasis. It wasn't exactly fair, the young ranger thought, since he had hardly been in the position or condition to question his authority. "And now get movin', worms!"

There were some muffled grumbles of discontent amongst the others, but they obeyed, and Aragorn found himself grasped by the scruff of his neck and dragged along. It was a rather nice change from almost choking.

"Now, let's have a little chat," the orc went on, effortlessly pulling him forward. "'M feeling a mite unloved here, little rat. You were so talkative earlier."

"Could it be ... connected to the fact that ... you are an ugly ... stupid ... evil creature of darkness?"

Grashók gave a great bellow of laughter, yellowish eyes glittering in the darkness. This was not, in no world possible, going to end well, Aragorn realised belatedly.

"There we are, _tark_," he said, patting Aragorn's cheek with his free hand. "I like it when they still got a little fight left in them." He grinned cheerfully. "Like that other one we just got rid of. He was a fighter! Don't rightly know why we did get rid of him – there are better things to do with them once they've stopped squirming –, but..."

Aragorn forgot for one second that he was being dragged towards an orc cave and certain doom, and gulped in a deep breath, doing his best to glare at the creature. He wasn't sure if it had worked, but judging by the orc's unimpressed expression, he rather doubted it.

"Where is the other one you captured? What did you do to him?"

Grashók didn't answer immediately and only pushed him forward, easing up on the leash. It wasn't an act of kindness, that much was sure; the orc most likely only didn't want to have to keep carrying him around. His injuries responded with predictable shrieks of agony, and Aragorn gritted his teeth and tried to pretend that he was somewhere else. Unsurprisingly enough, it didn't work.

"Why, nothing special." The orc leered at him, almost licking his lips. "Nothing you won't find out fer yourself." He pushed Aragorn forward, a brutal push that reopened half of the cuts he had received over the past hours. "And now walk, pretty boy, 'cause otherwise I'd have to do somethin' I'd regret doing this early on."

There was a comment on the tip of his tongue, connected to just what he thought about being called 'pretty boy', but another push sent him stumbling into the back of the orc walking in front of him. The creature snarled and pushed him back, thus once again setting off the vicious cycle of stumbling, falling and almost-suffocating. When he had regained his footing and breath after several long minutes, Grashók was gone, yelling at another orc at the back of the column.

The rest of the journey was spent in a nightmarish stupor of pain and exhaustion and ever-mounting terror. The other orcs snarled at him and used their whips whenever he slowed down (which, especially towards the end, happened a lot), but did nothing else. It was enough. When, after stumbling down one twisting path through the forest after the other, the entrance to a cave loomed in front of them, almost completely overgrown by a thick carpet of hanging ivy, he was too exhausted to feel as afraid as he knew he should.

It may have been a blessing in disguise, because suddenly Grashók was next to him, grinning from one ear to the other. There were more gaps than teeth in that smile, and Aragorn found himself strangely fascinated by the sight. Still, if he hadn't been so exhausted, he might very well have shown the orc the fear and dread he so obviously craved to see.

"Ready, little rat?" Grashók asked, transferring his grasp from the leash to Aragorn's hair. He yanked his head back hard, but Aragorn hardly noticed. "Wouldn't want you to start squirming now, would we?"

Grashók might have a point there, Aragorn had to admit that much. He was exhausted and terrified and a hundred things in between, but he was still far from beaten. If they gave him even the slightest opportunity, he would seize it. Later. After he had slept for about a year and found some pain medication, or, lacking that, something with which to kill himself.

"You really do have ... a vocabulary of two hundred words, haven't you?"

For a moment, Aragorn was very pleased by his words. His family kept telling him that he was an idiot to keep antagonising his captors, but he had always found it supremely satisfying. That feeling usually lasted until he was hit for his presumptuousness, of course, which was the most common reaction.

It wasn't any different today. Grashók's amused grin disappeared immediately, and Aragorn was sure that the orc would have slammed his head against a wall if one had been close-by. Things being as they were, the creature merely tightened his hold and began dragging him over to the entrance to the cave. Pain exploded across Aragorn's vision, but it was far away, somehow removed from him and from what really mattered.

"Funny, _pushdug_," the orc growled. Aragorn dizzily decided that Orcish didn't count as part of any kind of vocabulary. "Your kind are always funny in the beginning. Not gonna last long, though."

"I ... might surprise you," Aragorn gasped out, clinging to the dying shreds of his defiance with all the strength he still possessed. "Just you ... wait."

"Oh, I'm gonna wait," the orc promised him with a thoroughly disconcerting smile. "We have all the time in the world, _tark_, only you're not gonna enjoy it as much as me."

There was a comment just waiting to be said, right there in front of him, but Aragorn did not get the chance to say it. He was dragged into the cave, desperately trying to get his uncooperative feet under him. The tunnel described a sharp turn to the left almost immediately, and Aragorn only just managed to turn his head and catch a last glimpse of the fading stars before he was pulled around the corner. The darkness of the cave closed around him like a living, breathing creature enveloping its prey, and he had to work hard not to lose his composure right then and there.

The next few minutes passed like a blur, something for which he was very thankful. There were orcs seemingly pouring out of every tunnel adjacent to the one he was being dragged down, jeering and staring and _leering _at him, and no matter how much he tried to ignore them, he couldn't. A small voice inside of him laughed uproariously. 'You are being dragged by orcs through a cave, injured and bound, and want to _ignore _them?'

In the beginning there was only a lot of jeers and what he supposed were creative suggestions as to what to do with him both in Common and the Black Speech, but as they progressed down the pitch-black corridor, the orcs became bolder. His guards and especially Grashók, who was still dragging him along more or less by the hair, were disinterestedly trying to stop the others from doing anything too permanent, but by the time they reached a larger cave lit by two makeshift torches, Aragorn had acquired a dozen more cuts and at least twice that in bruises and abrasions. He was almost thankful to be yanked around the corner and into the larger space.

Because this was him and he had just that kind of luck, his stint with relief was very short-lived. Grashók growled at one of the bolder orcs that had been reaching for Aragorn, yanking him fully into the cave, and Aragorn was still thinking that the fact that the others didn't even think about crossing the threshold to follow them could only mean something very, very bad, when he was pulled to a stop. Almost against his better judgement, he raised his head, and found himself almost literally face to face with the orc that had captured Amlaith and him, half an age ago.

The orc took the time to give Grashók a flat stare before he turned to look at him, and very slowly a smile spread over the hideous face. Aragorn couldn't help but stare, fascinated against his will.

"Well, well, well," the orc drawled, reaching out with a clawed finger and trailing a sharp nail down the side of Aragorn's face, skimming over the bruises and abrasions there. "Look who we've got here. It's the pretty little ranger, all right."

As close to complete exasperation as possible under the circumstances, Aragorn wished furiously that everybody would stop calling him 'pretty', 'little', or a combination of the two. He didn't know what infuriated him more – he most certainly was not _pretty _and was at almost a head taller than most of the orcs present!

He didn't get the chance to voice his displeasure, since the tall, darker-skinned orc turned to Grashók, something darker amidst all the glee.

"Now where did you find this little worm, Grashók?"

Aragorn had never seen an orc preen, but this was exactly what the smaller orc did.

"Just walked right in our hands, he did, sir."

"Did he now?" the other asked, interested, and turned back to him. "Now isn't that a curious stroke of luck?"

Personally, Aragorn considered it _bad _luck, of the kind that only seemed to happen to him and people who associated with him, but he wasn't about to share that opinion with those two. Curiously enough, Grashók didn't seem to agree, either.

"Wasn't luck, Skagrosh," he grumbled, jerking Aragorn back as is wishing to remove his trophy from the other orc's sphere of influence. "We had a hard enough time catching him."

"Oh?" Skagrosh asked, shifting his attention from Aragorn to the other orc. Even under different circumstances – say, when he wasn't paralysed with pain and fear – Aragorn would have been impressed by how an orc managed to look so much like Erestor. This, he concluded, was yet another thing he would never, ever, share with anybody else. "Ain't that interesting. Think we should talk about that, Grashók. How did'cha find him?"

This was beginning to become really, really, wonderful, Aragorn thought with as much sarcasm as he still possessed while Grashók launched into a hugely embellished account of how he had captured him (apparently almost single-handedly). He had not only been dragged into an orc cave, he had been dragged into an orc cave and was now forced to listen to these two prowling around each other like two rivalling dogs. He had seen enough of this kind of posturing to last him a lifetime; the last thing he needed right now was to add to his list of experiences one of the orcish kind.

Because, really, those usually didn't work out so well.

Grashók was just telling an increasingly unimpressed-looking Skagrosh how he personally had fought off half a dozen rangers while holding down his newly-acquired captive with one hand. Aragorn, awash in pain that seemed to mount with every shake meant to underline the orc's heroic deeds, vaguely decided that he couldn't remember that particular part of his capture. He was almost glad when Skagrosh seemingly decided that he, too, thought that the tale was a little bit over the top. The resulting blow sent the smaller orc quite literally flying backwards until he hit the wall of the cave. While Aragorn wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic, he, too, was thrown backwards, even though Grashók had thankfully let go of his hair. He collapsed onto the floor, too exhausted and in too much pain to try and get up immediately. He would stay right here, and if those two creatures wanted to hit themselves, they were welcome to it.

Unfortunately enough, they didn't. Skagrosh merely stalked over to the weakly moving Grashók, picked him up and shook him like a dog might shake a rat.

"I gave you a very simple task, _snaga_," the taller orc said, in that same, almost silky voice that still featured prominently in Aragorn's nightmares. "'Take what's left of the _tark _and dump him somewhere', I said. I remember saying it very clearly. Don't you?"

Grashók didn't answer due to having his throat crushed, but Skagrosh seemed to take his silence for agreement.

"There I am now, waitin' for you an' your boys to do what you're told, and what happens? You come back almost ten short. Now what happened there?"

The other orc made some strangled, choking sounds, which Aragorn found particularly satisfying. Apparently, Skagrosh did, too, for he only squeezed harder.

"I'll tell you what happened," the taller orc went on. "You ruined everything, that's what happened. You were stupid, and greedy, and arrogant, and I really don't like like that. More importantly, the master won't like it."

"Did nothing ... wrong..." Grashók ground out.

"Yes, you did," Skagrosh said in that reasonable, bone-chilling manner of his. "Did a lot of things wrong, didn't you? But you brought us that pretty little thing to play with, which is the only reason why you aren't dead yet. _Yet_," he stressed, shaking the smaller orc once more, "'cause if the master finds out what you did, you'll have a whole lot of different problems."

"I..."

Skagrosh interrupted the other orc by all but throwing him out of the cave. Grashók hit the floor outside with a shriek, accompanied by the guffawing laughter of the other orcs. Aragorn could only assume that he seized this chance to escape, but he didn't get a chance to check for himself. Skagrosh was suddenly looming above him, looking ridiculously like a cat about to eat a canary.

Aragorn had never felt so unhappy about being likened to a bird.

"Now to you, little ranger," the orc drawled, reaching out with a paw-like hand to grasp him by one of his upper arms and drag him to his feet. "It's so nice to see you again."

"I ... wish I could ... say the same," Aragorn answered, choking.

Skagrosh grinned.

"Hadn't thought you would. Now, what are you doing here, _tark_?"

"Being the victim of the worst kind of luck _ever_?"

Skagrosh only grinned more broadly, something that awoke in Aragorn the very vivid urge to scramble away. There was nowhere to go, though, especially not with his arms bound behind him, and so Aragorn gave up after a short struggle and concentrated on breathing.

"Ah, that was the wrong answer," the orc said, shaking his head. The sight of the lanky, dark hair moving from side to side was almost hypnotic, and Aragorn forced himself not to look too closely. "Do you really expect me to think that you just stumbled over us twice?"

If he had been breathing a bit more easily, Aragorn would have tried to smile.

"Hard to ... believe, isn't ... it?"

Skagrosh seemed to agree, at least judging by the frown creasing his face. It was a look that, under different circumstances, would have been fascinating, at least from a scientific point of view.

"Shouldn't have been sneaking around, boy," the orc told him, turning his head slightly from side to side to study him more closely. "But now that you're here ... we're short one ... guest. You'll fill that space quite nicely, I'd say."

Even though Aragorn had been dreading something like this, it still chilled his blood to hear it. He tried not to show just how scared he really was, but apparently failed spectacularly since Skagrosh's grin only widened. Any second now his teeth would drop out of his skull, Aragorn decided.

"Don't you think so, boys?" Skagrosh called out, and as if on cue a row of faces appeared in the doorway, hideous and forbidding in the light that the flickering torches cast. "Not so brave now, are you?" he went on, leering. "There's no one to save you now, _tark_. No rangers, and no elves. You're all alone."

Any comment Aragorn would have liked to make died in his throat. There was nothing worse than being throttled by a gloating orc who also happened to be right.

"I wonder if your blood is as tasty as your friend's," Skagrosh crooned, and Aragorn stopped listening right then and there. "I bet it's even sweeter."

Aragorn barely felt sharp claws rake down his chest, tearing through the remnants of his shirt and opening a row of shallow gashes. Suddenly the orc's face was right in front of him, sharp teeth smeared with red, and that was when he started praying for unconsciousness.

He wasn't that lucky, of course. The tall orc grinned at him, licking his lips with exaggerated slowness, before he turned around and gestured at the others who were looking on, looking decidedly hungry.

"Get him into position, lads."

Aragorn was still asking himself just what position that might be – even though he was fairly certain that he would not like it – when the orcs surged forward, took a hold of him and dragged him forward, into the middle of the cave. It was a testament to his condition that he only now noticed the stake that had been driven into the cave floor. With practiced movements that made the dread pressing down on him weigh even more heavily, the orcs exchanged his bonds for metal shackles, and within a minute he had been secured to the pole, the short chain connecting the manacles encircling his wrists forcing him to remain on his knees.

This was _not _how he had expected this evening to end. Or then again, considering his kind of luck, maybe he had, just a little.

The orcs' leader waited until the others had drawn back once more amongst hissed curses and threats, an almost lazy smile on his face. He began to circle the kneeling ranger, cocking his head to the side in contemplation.

"Now that's better," Skagrosh finally declared. "Much better. Now, pay attention, scum. How did you know where we'd be?"

Aragorn shortly considered telling the truth, namely that he was just having the worst luck of the century. The orc would never believe it, of course, but at least the truth would be where it belonged. Then again, the truth was quite clearly overrated, at least when it involved orcs and almost certain doom.

"You wouldn't know what to do with what I told you," he finally said instead. Riling one's captors was always vaguely entertaining, after all. "You wouldn't know what is important and what is not. You are just the footmen. The muscle. Your master wants to know this; not you."

The blow came out of nowhere, snapping his already aching head to the side and into the hardened wooden stake. Bright pinpricks of light exploded across his vision, but no matter how fervently Aragorn willed them to, they did not expand and the darkness lurking at the edges of his vision did not swallow him. It was frustrating, not to mention typical.

"Brave, hmm?" Skagrosh smiled at him, and only now Aragorn noticed that he was being held up by his hair, again. The pain that the orc's brutal grip caused registered only very belatedly, his mind informing the rest of him that this was really the least of his problems right now. "The others were brave, too. In the beginning, that is. In the end, not so much. Now," the orc went on, tilting his head back even further with a sharp tug at his scalp, "let me make one thing perfectly clear: The master is going to ask you the questions, yes, but until he's here to do it, you do what I ask or say, _when _I say it. And, right now, I ask how you knew that me boys were dumpin' what was left of the _tark _where they did."

Aragorn squinted at him, having great difficulty making out the creature's face. Come to think about it, that might have been a good thing. There was nothing to say, nothing that the orc would believe, and nothing he _wanted _to say. Worse than that, he didn't know if he would ever be able to stop once he started speaking.

Skagrosh might have been many things, but slow on the uptake was not one of them. Taking the young ranger's silence for what it was, he grinned and let go of his hair. Before Aragorn could react, the orc's metal-plated fist connected with his wounded arm, re-igniting the fiery agony consuming the wound. Aragorn tried to curl up to protect the injury, but his chains would not let him, and a second blow hit the same spot with just as much force. This time, he could not hold back the choked cry that the impact wrenched from his lips, and the orcs' gleeful laughter filtered even through the haze that filled his mind.

Another blow followed and another, bringing that elusive, beckoning darkness ever closer, much to Aragorn's relief. Just when he thought that he might finally manage to do the sensible thing and pass out, the blows stopped, leaving him a gasping, shivering heap on the cold rock floor. He was only one step away from whimpering, the entirety of his body hurting with a fierce, throbbing vengeance, and he clamped his teeth together and pressed his lips into a firm line. That was _not _a sound he was going to make, Elbereth help him.

If only he could believe that himself, he would feel a lot better. Granted, that wouldn't be too hard at the moment, but the principle still applied.

Clinging to the desperate resolve that he would not show these creatures just how terrified he really was, he opened his eyes. The blurry shape in front of him coalesced into a metal-plated boot, and he was already trying to draw back to get away from it when he realised that it wasn't making any move to kick him.

"...sure about this?" the owner of the boot asked. "The master's not gonna be happy about this, Skagrosh."

"Skai!" Skagrosh growled, and another boot appeared in his line of vision. It looked decidedly pointy, and Aragorn shivered. "We're just playin' a little, is all. It's not as if it ain't gonna happen anyway."

What a lovely sentiment. In a slightly demented way, it was even kind of logical.

"But..."

There was a dull thud, and one of the boots disappeared from his field of vision. There was a scuffle of steps and shouts, but Aragorn had stopped paying attention. Skagrosh was going to do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted, and none of the horde would stop him or seriously oppose him.

This would end so very, very badly.

"Now," Skagrosh's voice drawled, and Aragorn suddenly found himself pulled up by the scruff of his neck. The sudden shift in position caused the room to spin around him in soft circles, but Aragorn hardly noticed. All he could see was the gleeful grin on the orc's face, the one that caused the blood to freeze in his veins. He had seen this kind of anticipation too many times, on the faces of people who wanted to – and had – hurt him. "Let's continue this, little rat. D'you still remember what we talked about?"

Aragorn didn't bother answering. His brain might be rattling around in his skull like poppy seeds in their capsules, but he still knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. Skagrosh held him upright until just before he could regain his equilibrium, and he needed some moments to fight against gravity's apparently irresistible pull to remain upright when he was suddenly released. He immediately asked himself why he had bothered, since Skagrosh was suddenly right in front of him again, grinning like a fiend. Aragorn's eyes travelled from the orc's smiling face to the knife he held in his hand, the blade gleaming in the sparse light. It was lightly curved and had a gently tapered tip, and looked very much like something no orc would ever have manufactured.

The sight shocked him less than he would have thought, and in some strange sense, he was even relieved. He had known this would be coming ever since he had opened his eyes to the sight of an orc grinning down on him.

"I'll just assume you do," Skagrosh went on, fixing Aragorn with a look that was not unlike that of a snake spying a juicy mouse. "Now, do I have to use this or..."

"Stop wasting my time, _orch_," Aragorn ground out, trying to edge away from the knife without appearing to do so. "You are going to use it anyway."

A hiss rose all around the room at the Sindarin word, and Skagrosh bared his teeth at him before regaining his composure.

"Right you are, _tark_," he said, grinning with more teeth than Aragorn would have thought anybody possessed. "How could I not, with blood this sweet? All right, ready, lads?"

Aragorn tried to jerk away as hands reached for him, pinning him in place, but it was useless. Even if he had been in better shape, he would have been unable to move with his hands chained together and to the pole and half a dozen orcs holding onto his arms. Things being as they were, he managed to move maybe an inch before the hands holding him jerked him back into place. He had barely enough time to look up before a clawed hand grasped his chin and forced it up. The knife was right in front of his eyes, then, gleaming and sparkling in the dim light. The orcs around him tightened their hold even more, angling his left arm up, and Aragorn could only watch with sick, fatalistic horror as Skagrosh brought the knife down onto his bared forearm.

The blade cut into his flesh, sharp enough for the pain to register only several moments later. It wasn't a deep cut, he realised, almost shocked, and ... and then, the bottom of his world fell away as pain shot through him with an intensity that was quite hard to grasp or understand. He was awash in it, completely unable to do anything but try and continue breathing. There was a strange, strangled sound filling his ears, sounding very much like someone trying not to scream and not doing a very good job, and he realised hazily many, many pain-filled seconds later that it was him. By then he didn't care, didn't care about anything but _make it stop_, but it didn't, not until he had bitten through his lip and had thoroughly exhausted himself fighting against the hands restraining him.

The sudden decrease of pain was, for one brief, confused moment, almost worse than what had come before, and Aragorn slumped in his captors' grasp, gasping for breath. Blood trickled down his chin and neck from where he had bitten his lip, and only when a strong hand took hold of his hair once more and pulled him upright in a single motion did he open his eyes. Strange, he thought dazedly, he couldn't remember closing them in the first place.

It had been a good idea, though, as he found out as soon as he looked at his arm. First, he could hardly see anything for the blood that covered his entire forearm, staining the orcs' hands that grabbed both the chain connected to the manacle and his upper arm just above the elbow to keep him still. It dripped onto the ground in a steady stream and pooled next to him, the dripping sound overly loud in his ears. Once he knew what he was looking for, however, not even the blood could obscure the rough, darker rectangle where the skin had been stripped away from his forearm, leaving behind raw flesh that oozed blood at an alarming rate.

Skinned, a shocked voice echoed inside his head. He had been skinned, like a dead animal. Or, the voice added, almost giggling now, a soon-to-be-dead animal.

He was distracted by the sudden reappearance of the knife, now blood-stained and not nearly as gleaming. His addled mind couldn't follow its course as quickly as necessary, and so he cried out in shock and pain when it opened up another cut, this one running diagonally across the skinned flesh. If he had thought the wound had hurt before, he was quickly proven that this was far, far worse. He didn't remember much of the next few minutes except the very vivid urge to find something to hit himself over the head with to escape the agony for even a second.

Aragorn came back to himself very reluctantly an undetermined amount of time later, sluggishly trying to claw his way back to the surface of the mind-numbing pain filling every fibre of his being. A cold finger was suddenly placed under his chin and lifted it up, almost gently and with care. It felt strangely wet against his over-sensitive skin, and Aragorn realised that it was covered in blood – _his _blood – in the exact moment that his eyes found Skagrosh's, which were positively gleaming with satisfaction.

"Delicious," the orc purred, bringing the knife to his lips and licking off the viscous fluid that slowly dripped down the blade, running in little rivulets from tip to hilt and creating random, interlocking patterns. "I could do this all night, boy. Drain you of it all, drop by drop, and make you watch while I drink it, right from your veins. What would ya think about that, _tark_?"

If not for the orc's grip on his chin, Aragorn's head would have dropped onto his chest, all his strength suddenly spent. But there was still some fight left in him even despite the pain and terror, and he swallowed and looked straight at Skagrosh, putting all his loathing and hatred and what he still possessed of hope and pride into his gaze.

"_Tôl acharn, a tolar muindyr nín. Gwannathach pain._"

His words came out soft and hoarse, a result of screaming in pain which he barely remembered doing. The orc's fingers tightened around his jaw, digging into the soft flesh of his throat, but he did not look overly angry, even though the orcs around them muttered angrily and their claws left shallow cuts in his arms and back, so strongly did they tighten their grip. Skagrosh, in turn, looked anticipatory, if anything, as if he had received something to which he had been looking forward for some time now.

"You know what, little _tark_?" the orc asked, leaning forward so that Aragorn could smell his foetid breath. "You don't have to speak in that accursed Elvish tongue of yours for me to know what you are. You're like that friend of yours we just got rid of, or that blond worm that helped you escape earlier. You're like them, like them elves that have no business poking their noses into things that don't concern them. I can see it in your eyes, those pretty, pretty eyes of yours. It's in there, that glimmerin', deep down so that you can only see it and can't never, ever, touch it."

He grinned almost lazily, fingers slowly stroking down the side of the young ranger's face in a sick parody of a caress.

"But I'm gonna touch it, boy. I'm gonna crush it, and you, and will leave you for _them _to find. The master's not gonna care, not after you've told him what he wants to know. And you will. But if I have anything to say about the whole matter, that's gonna take a very, very long time."

Aragorn looked at him, trying to lift his chin in defiance in spite of the claws wrapped around his throat and jaw, but all thoughts and words of defiance drained out of him like water draining through a sieve as Skagrosh brought up his other hand, long, scaly-looking fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife.

It moved over to his chest, skimming down over his shoulder and collarbone to his sternum, and when it was pressed down, the agony rushed back to envelop him whole, blacking out the sights and sounds of the cave and thankfully taking Skagrosh's grinning face with it.  
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Legolas had learned many things in his life. Granted, from an Elda's point of view it hadn't been all that long yet – not even three thousand years –, but he was no youngling and had seen more dangers than most elves his age.

One of those things was that it was never, ever, a good sign when a messenger arrived at the camp (or city, or palace, or village), his mount sweat-covered, and looking as if the hounds of Mordor were on his trail. Sometimes, they really were, and the situation explained itself. Most of the time, however, the news he carried was of the kind that you really did not want to hear, especially when you had already been pricked by a healer with what most sane people would most likely consider torture implements and hadn't even had breakfast yet.

He had honestly never thought he would say this, but he had come to like the nut tarts that the ranger currently on kitchen duty did every morning.

The ultimate proof that something very, very Bad (and yes, the capitalisation was deliberate) had happened was that said messenger had not only arrived at the camp, he was now about to enter the tent he was occupying. The arrival of the ranger had been hard to miss – no matter how stealthy the _Dúnedain_ were, it was hard to deceive the ears of an elf – but Legolas had ignored it, trusting Eldacar to take care of it. He had no position in the camp after all, and it would be almost an affront to the ranger Daervagor had left in charge to barge in and demand that he be included in strategic discussions. Eldacar was a level-headed and able leader, and he would see this as what it was – worry, plain and simple –, but he would not be pleased.

If there was anything important or if there was any news, Eldacar would share it with him. It was common courtesy, after all, not to mention politically wise. Eldacar was not only level-headed, he was also intelligent, and he knew just what keeping the Elvenking's son in the dark would mean.

So, the fact that he was now hearing the sounds of footsteps hurrying towards the tent was not a good thing. Legolas was not a dim elf, and he could very well imagine of what kind these news were. Aragorn had got himself mauled, or maimed, or hit over the head with something heavy. Especially the latter seemed to be happening with increasing frequency.

To the left of him, Celylith stirred, but did not wake, which Legolas found both relieving and unsurprising. The silver-haired elf was healing, but it was a slow process. He was still spending the majority of the day sleeping, and the rest in a drugged stupor. Even though Legolas would have preferred his friend to be awake and aware, he was glad that Celylith could rest and heal without feeling what had to be excruciating pain. Not that the other elf would ever admit to that; he was quite like Aragorn in that regard, especially if he thought that Legolas needed to hear that he was all right. He would still insist on being fine and perfectly healthy if missing a few limbs.

Loudly, too.

Legolas got up, mindful of his right side. His shoulder was feeling less like a pit of molten lava now, but it was still far from healed. His hand was another matter entirely, and he was very careful not to jostle it. He took a few steps towards the entrance of the tent, squinting slightly against the sunlight painting patterns of light and shadow onto the floor directly in front of the slightly open tent flap. His black eye had lost some of its spectacular appearance, but it was still dark enough to make him look decidedly colourful. Under normal circumstances, it would have faded to a light green by now, but his body was so busy trying to heal his injuries that black eyes had to be rather far down on its list of concerns.

The footsteps stopped, and Legolas took a deep breath and stepped out of the tent. The sunlight almost blinded him for a moment, making him feel decidedly self-conscious, and he blinked, orienting himself. Eldacar was standing in front of him, looking rather unsurprised by his sudden emergence from the tent. Next to him, two more rangers blinked up at him, looking slightly startled. Of course, Legolas thought. Daervagor wouldn't send only one man, not after what had happened. He was rather sure that he had not seen them before, even though the left one looked slightly familiar.

"My lord," Eldacar said, inclining his head. "I am sorry to disturb you, but..."

"Do not worry, Eldacar." Legolas smiled at the man, but the smile faded when Eldacar only looked solemn and slightly ill at ease. "You did not disturb me. I have been doing nothing but rest for the past few days and am feeling much stronger."

"I am glad," Eldacar retorted, looking as if gladness was the very last thing on his mind right now. "The resilience of the Elves is not exaggerated."

"There are limits to what we can recover from, I am afraid," Legolas said, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to where he knew Celylith was still sleeping. "But my injuries were not as serious as they first appeared."

Eldacar didn't look openly sceptical, which Legolas took as a good sign. He had said this repeatedly over the past days; the last thing he wanted was for people – even if they were rangers – to start asking themselves how he could recover this quickly from the wounds they had seen back in the orc cave.

Aragorn had risked his life for him and Celylith, and he would do what he could do minimise the damage. In his heart, Legolas knew very well that the damage might very well be irreversible, but that wouldn't stop him from trying.

"That is good to hear," Eldacar assured him, his face serious. "How is your companion doing, my lord? We feared greatly for him, and now that he has woken up, we all hope that he will recover swiftly."

"As well as can be expected, I would say," Legolas retorted, shooting another look over his shoulder and not caring how over-protective he appeared. "He very nearly died, make no mistake. But he is strong and, Oromë be my witness, stubborn. Nestir has assured me that, barring any unforeseen complications, he should recover, hopefully completely. It will take time and patience, but he will be well, Eru willing."

Eldacar's expression didn't change noticeably, even though his voice was sincere.

"That is good news, my lord."

"It is indeed," Legolas said, shading the eye he still couldn't open completely to squint at the smaller man. "But, not meaning to imply any kind of disrespect, you – the three of you – did not come here to inquire after mine or Lord Celylith's health."

"No, my lord," Eldacar admitted. "I am afraid that we have not. These," he gestured at the two rangers next to him, "are Belvathor and Torthagyl, my lord. The captain sent them with news."

"I see," Legolas said, acknowledging the sketched bows that the two rangers gave him. He was beginning to feel very uneasy indeed. Eldacar was reasonably cheerful for a dúnadan, who, as a general rule, weren't the most optimistic of people, and to see him this dour couldn't be good. "And, I take it, this news concern me?"

"They do indeed, my lord. I suggest we find somewhere more private to talk. You would not wish this to be discussed in public, I believe."

There was a cold knot in the pit of his stomach that was steadily growing and expanding. Legolas did his best to push it away and present a calm façade to his surroundings. He knew that Eldacar, at least, was not fooled, but there were other rangers milling about, doing whatever it was that rangers did a couple of hours after sunrise. A large percentage of it seemed to involve sharpening weapons and glaring seriously at innocent woodland creatures. Still, by now he had stopped believing in things like Rangers Do Not Eavesdrop, and so he knew better than to assume that no one would hear what they said.

"Very well," he said, inclining his head. "Lead the way. Could you have..."

"Nestir will be here in a second," Eldacar assured him. "He will look after Lord Celylith."

"Thank you," Legolas said with a small, somewhat rueful smile. He was becoming horribly predictable, it seemed.

Nestir did arrive a few moments later. The man nodded at Eldacar and the other rangers, gave Legolas a suspicious look and a look that promised a more thorough examination in the future, and disappeared inside the tent. Legolas waited until he heard the tell-tale sounds of the healer rearranging the items on the small, wooden nightstand next to Celylith's bedroll before he nodded at the three rangers and gestured at them to precede him. It didn't take them long to reach what Legolas assumed was Eldacar's tent. Only when they entered he noticed how soothing the dim light actually was, and how badly his head was hurting. Only recently the sun had started to exarcabate his headaches, which Legolas considered an added insult heaped upon a situation that was less than favourable to begin with.

The wood-elf surveyed the small room, which took roughly half a second. There was a bed roll – only one, a concession to Eldacar's position, he thought – a chair and a table that had to be at least a hundred years old and was piled high with what looked like half of the entire paperwork of western Eriador. Various piles of clothes and equipment were strewn about the room, but no matter how irregular their placement, they were stacked neatly and in a way that would have made even the sternest drill sergeant proud.

Legolas returned his attention to the three men standing in front of him. The two messengers were hanging back and keeping closer to the entrance, if instinctively or on purpose Legolas could not say. Under different circumstances, Legolas would have found their clear reluctance to having to face him (or, possibly, this situation) amusing, but right now it only helped to convince him that he would not enjoy this conversation.

"Well?" he finally asked and arched an eyebrow at Eldacar. "What news do you have for me, westman?"

Eldacar looked at him in a way that reminded Legolas strangely of a mouse that had found itself cornered by a particularly blood-thirsty cat and had decided to try and fight anyway, by using its tail to poke out its adversary's eyes if necessary. He had not said a word yet, and was fingering the edges of what looked like a map with the obsessive dexterity of a man who had been doing little else for far too long.

"The captain has sent no written word, and neither have Lord Elrond's sons," the man finally began. "I can only tell you what I in turn have been told."

Legolas waited for something more, but there was nothing forthcoming. He suppressed a tired sigh and surprised himself by wishing for his bedroll and a nap. This was getting tiresome, and if Eldacar didn't come out with whatever 'it' was, he was going to say something he would regret.

"Yes?"

Eldacar actually shifted from foot to foot. Legolas, who knew by now how hard it was to make a ranger actually _shift_, stared. The cold knot inside of him turned into solid ice and made it hard for him to draw breath, even though, to be fair, that could also have been because of his bruised ribs.

"Commander Cemendur is dead," Eldacar said, his voice wavering the tiniest bit. "The captain and the others found him yesterday afternoon. The orcs ... they killed him."

Legolas silently bowed his head and closed his eyes for a second. It didn't come as a shock, not really, and for a second all he felt was relief that it was not Aragorn's cousin who had lost his life in so terrible a fashion.

"I am sorry," he said, opening his eyes again. To his surprise, he found that he truly meant it, no matter how hostile the man had behaved towards them. "I did not know him well, but he was a good leader and always stood up for his convictions."

There was more he could have said, but it would have sounded false and empty of meaning, and so he didn't. Eldacar inclined his head at his words, grief visible in his grey eyes.

"Thank you, my lord. He will be missed, by all of us."

For the second time in less than a minute, Legolas waited for him to continue. Again, he did not, but this time, Legolas only felt pity for him for having to inform his men about this worst possible news. Cemendur had been respected, if not liked, and his death would hit the already floundering camp hard.

"Again, I am sorry, Eldacar," he finally said, his voice soft. "I..."

"That is not all, my lord," the ranger interrupted him, looking up at him. "We ... that is not all that happened."

"It isn't?" Legolas asked in a deceptively mild tone of voice.

"No," Eldacar confirmed. He was silent for a while before he took a deep breath, and clearly decided to throw his companions to the wolves. "I will let Torthagyl explain the matter to you."

The ranger in question, a man of roughly Daervagor's age and with the pinched look of someone who knew that he was being dangled in front of the troll as bait, was too polite or obedient to glare at his superior. He simply took a deep breath, clearly resisted the urge to gulp, and looked at Legolas, eyes dark and vaguely sympathetic.

"There was an ... incident, my lord," he began. "Yesterday, while searching for clues about Halbarad's and Commander Cemendur's whereabouts, Serothlain and his troop were ambushed. Lhanton and Serothlain barely made it back alive. The captain and the others are still searching as we speak."

Legolas' arched eyebrow rose to dizzying heights. If there ever had been a case of selective recounting of the truth, this was it. Lord Erestor would have been proud.

"And what is it you are not telling me, dúnadan?"

Torthagyl exchanged a quick look with his companion, a young man with a slightly wild look in his eyes that Legolas could understand only too well, and squared his shoulders.

"Strider was ... taken. He held them off long enough for Serothlain and Lhanton to escape, but he did not."

"Oh."

It was all that Legolas could say, all anyone could have said. He had expected some sort of catastrophe, but there were different levels, weren't there? Maiming, yes. Being hit over the head, yes. Being taken captive by orcs? That was something else entirely.

Elbereth Gilthoniel. Aragorn had been taken captive by orcs. Aragorn had been taken captive by orcs who were looking for him.

Giving silent thanks to the Valar that he was standing in front of the tent pole, Legolas slowly leaned back against it and closed his eyes. This was not happening. This _could not _be happening.

"My lord?" Eldacar's voice pulled him back to awareness, and Legolas reluctantly looked up. Judging by the look on the man's face, he had been trying to get his attention for some time now.

"Yes," Legolas said, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. "I ... I am sorry, Master Ranger. But did you just say that Estel has been captured by _orcs_?"

"Yes, my lord," Torthagyl repeated reluctantly. "Lhanton managed to get Serothlain back to the village, even though he was injured himself. The captain and the others were still looking for Strider and his captors when we left, shortly before daybreak."

"And if they had found something, you would already have told me."

"I would, my lord," the ranger affirmed. "I am sorry, but as of now, we have no idea where they took him. There are trails, yes, but they were hidden carefully. These orcs possess an uncharacteristically good idea of how to mask their tracks and hide the signs of their passage. All we found was the commander's body."

Legolas had to take a hold of all his remaining strength of will and self-control and managed not to slump back against the pole. This was ... Valar, this was a disaster.

"I ... I just wanted to inform you, my lord," Eldacar said, in the tone of voice of someone who was aware of the fact that he had to talk very slowly and carefully in order not to wake the proverbial sleeping warg. "The captain has ordered us to stay where we are. There is nothing we can do at the moment."

Disjointed images of pain and darkness and Aragorn's face, twisted in agony and fear, flittered through Legolas' mind, and he thought that it was almost amusing that Eldacar spoke to him in the tone of voice that had to be universally known as "Let's not upset the crazy people". It was strangely appropriate.

"What is Daervagor planning to do?" he asked, voice calm and carefully controlled.

Eldacar looked at him carefully, while the other two rangers exchanged a quick look of disapproval at his omission of Daervagor's rank.

"Considering what is happening at the moment, I was not told," Eldacar told him. "I do not need to know."

The "and neither do you" went unspoken, and usually Legolas would not have cared for it. As it was, he was too busy trying not to panic to care for innuendos and reading between the lines.

"As I said, they were still looking when we left, my lord," the younger ranger said, clearly trying to take pity on him. "The Lords Elladan and Elrohir both took their own groups to search. There _are _tracks, but it's been slow work."

"I see," Legolas said slowly and carefully, feeling as though he had to think about every single word very carefully lest he say something he did not wish to divulge, least of all to a group of rangers. "Thank you for informing me, Eldacar."

"He is your friend," Eldacar said with a small shrug, and that really said everything. "I would want to know, no matter what." He broke off, tilting his head to the side, before he looked back up. "Torthagyl and Belvathor will return to the village in a few hours' time. I am going to send several reports and dispatches with them. If you would like to add something, like a letter to Lord Elrond's sons...?"

"Thank you," Legolas said, as firmly as he could and pushed off the pole. "I ... I will let you know."

Before any of them could say anything, Legolas turned and fled, only it was more of a tactical retreat (because Wood-elves did not flee) and he couldn't walk very fast at all, not with his side and shoulder hurting as much as they did. His headache once again remembered what it was supposed to be doing, namely torment him, and joined the concert of discomfort that clamoured for his attention. He managed to make it back to their tent without losing his composure, even though his self-control was severely strained by the sympathetic and pitying looks he received from almost every ranger he passed. World travelled fast, it appeared, and the Rangers still hadn't perfected the art of Giving Someone Sympathetic Looks Without That Person Noticing.

When he entered the tent, he sighed with relief at the relative darkness of his surroundings. Now, this was enough, he told himself firmly. This headache was getting debilitating, and he would not have it. Especially not now. This stopped _right now_.

Nestir, sitting next to Celylith's bedroll in a cross-legged position that looked oddly comfortable, looked up at his entrance, setting aside a mortar and pestle in the process. Legolas could smell the clean, fresh scent of crushed herbs, and for a moment it helped soothe his chaotically rolling mind. Then the reality of the situation came rushing back, and the sight of Nestir picking up his tools and gently depositing them on one of the nearby tables was yet another reminder of Aragorn and the thought that he probably wouldn't have been as conscientious and would have left the mortar where it was when he leapt to his feet.

The healer picked up the rest of the utensils he had brought before he took up the mortar and gave Legolas a searching look.

"I take it that offering you a potion to help with the pain would be pointless?"

"What pain?" Legolas retorted with a wry smile whose effect just might have been ruined by the fact that he would have liked to bash his head against a wall to make the pain and terrifying images go away.

"Exactly," Nestir replied with a tight, displeased smile. "He woke up a few minutes ago," he said softly, turning back to nod into Celylith's direction. Under normal circumstances, him whispering wouldn't have mattered terribly much, but right now Legolas doubted that Celylith would notice a herd of oliphaunts stamping through the tent unless one of them stepped on him. And even then, the odds were rather even in his opinion. "I haven't given him his next dose yet. I thought you..."

"I will take care of it," Legolas assured him. "Thank you, Nestir."

Nestir looked up at the intensity in his voice and gave him a small nod and what might have been the hint of a smile.

"Do not mention it, my lord. It was my pleasure."

A moment later he was gone, and Legolas once again decided that Nestir wasn't that bad after all. He might be a power-hungry monster – sometimes, at least –, but he knew when to give his patients space and the time to be alone. In his opinion, that made up for his worrying inclination to torture people with medical instruments.

His mind was still reeling when he sat down next to Celylith, feeling the sudden urge to run or scream or hit somebody. His body let him know what it thought of that and his brain let him know how helpful it would be, and so he just sat there, watching his friend's face and trying to ignore the fact that his eyes were closed, and tried to decide what to do. There was nothing he _could _do, just like Eldacar had said, not from here, at least. And even if he managed to convince the rangers to allow him to accompany them – and he did not doubt that he would manage it, because he was his father's son and could be very, _very _persuasive –, he was reasonably sure that the twins would _not _be amused. Then again, he had never been overly concerned with keeping the twins happy, so he was not terribly worried about that, but...

"Good ... evening."

Legolas tore himself away from his unpleasant thoughts and focused on his friend, automatically starting to smile from ear to ear. Even after two days, he found himself hard-pressed not to start grinning like a maniac whenever Celylith was awake.

"Rather 'Good Morning', my friend. It is barely past the tenth hour."

Celylith frowned, a little crease appearing between his eyebrow and the edge of the bandage covering one side of his face.

"Already?"

"Yes, already," Legolas replied. "You've slept for a long time."

"I seem to ... do that a lot ... lately."

"Indeed," Legolas agreed solemnly. "And I am glad about it. So don't try to convince me not to give you your next dose; it will not work. I know you are in pain."

"I am ... not," Celylith told him with the kind of earnest truthfulness that Legolas had never thought particularly convincing.

"Yes, you are," Legolas insisted. "You need to rest in order to heal, _mellon nín_, and you know it as well as I do."

Celylith's frown deepened, even though the pallor of his face and the pinched look around his eye belied the truth of his words.

"I would really ... like to stay conscious for longer ... than five minutes."

"And I would like to live in peace and quiet," Legolas countered, unimpressed. "We can't always get what we want."

"We could if you would ... refrain from associating ... with Rivendell Elves."

Legolas laughed, no matter how terrible their situation. Because ... well, it was true, wasn't it?

"Yes, maybe. You are still getting your medicine. So, if you would open your mouth like a good little elf...?"

"Never was ... a good little elf."

"How true," Legolas said, remembering all the times he had got into trouble because of one of Celylith's 'fail-safe plans'. "And still you never knew when to quit while you were ahead."

"I never _am _ahead," Celylith told him seriously.

"You should stop betting against me," Legolas said with forced cheerfulness that, as he suspected, probably made him appear like a lunatic. "Now, don't misunderstand me, because you know that I love you like a brother. But if you do not open your mouth in the next twelve seconds, I will have to force-feed this lovely ... what colour is this, grey? – well, this lovely grey potion to you."

"Legolas. Stop."

Legolas reluctantly looked back down at his friend, seeing Celylith's open eye study him closely. There was pain in it, but also determination, the kind that he knew well and knew far better than to try and disregard. If Celylith looked at you like that, you did what he wanted, because the alternative just wasn't worth it.

Celylith did something that was probably in some way connected to arching an eyebrow. Right now, it looked vaguely like a very weak nervous tick.

"What is ... wrong?"

"What do you mean?" Legolas asked, even though he knew that it would make no difference. But Celylith was not well, and the last thing he needed was worrying about something he could not change, and so he would at least try. "You are being stubborn, as usual, but..."

"Legolas."

Legolas fell silent. Injured or not, trying to argue with Celylith when he was in this kind of mood really was nothing but an exercise in complete and utter futility.

"Estel is in trouble," he finally said. "Daervagor just sent word that his troop was ambushed by orcs. They ... they took him. The rangers are looking for him, but as of right now, they don't have any promising leads or tracks. And Commander Cemendur is dead. They found his body yesterday afternoon."

Celylith didn't say anything, and for a second, Legolas thought he had fallen asleep. That didn't make any sense, of course, since Celylith was unwell enough to sleep with his eyes closed, and so the other elf finally blinked, looking tired and in pain but very serious.

"Well," Celylith said. "You know ... what you have to do, then, don't you?"

Legolas grimaced, grasping the stone vessel containing the sleeping potion more firmly. He knew precisely what he wanted to do, what he wanted to do so badly that he found sitting still almost impossible. But there was a difference between what you wanted to do and what you had to do, that was something he had learned very early.

"I cannot do anything from here," he said instead. "And I cannot leave you here alone. There is nothing I can do."

Celylith snorted, only to grimace in pain almost immediately.

"Of course ... you can. This is not the ... wilds. I will be fine."

"You almost died," Legolas told him, trying to keep the savage fear that still tore through him at the very thought at bay and out of his voice. "I almost lost you, _again_. I will _not _leave you alone among strangers."

"And you will not ... leave Estel among orcs, either," Celylith told him in the kind of voice he reserved for stating the painfully obvious.

"I..." Legolas began. He was sure that he had not felt this torn for several hundred years at least.

"Legolas," Celylith interrupted him, weakly reaching for Legolas' hand. His grasp was marginally stronger than yesterday, and a part of Legolas was still detached enough to be glad about it. "I know you ... want to go. I want you to go."

"I am not sure of how much help I could be," Legolas said, wishing he wouldn't sound so half-hearted. "Unhappy as I am to admit it, but I am not perfectly healthy myself. The twins would have my head for undoing all their precious work – and Estel's work, too."

"Noldor," Celylith said dismissively, the hand that Legolas was still grasping twitching in a gesture of nonchalance. "They like to be ... dramatic."

"They do," Legolas admitted with a smile. "But this time, they might be right."

"It does not ... matter," the other elf protested with a minute shake of his head. "You will be of more help ... there than here. I will be fine. And if you do not go ... I will be very unhappy."

"And we wouldn't want that," Legolas muttered, not knowing if he should be amused or annoyed.

"No, we would ... not," Celylith agreed. "Go, and tell him what a ... a reckless idiot he is when you ... find him."

Legolas studied his friend's bruised face for a long time and finally shook his head.

"There is nothing I can do to change your mind, is there?"

"No," Celylith said with a smile that was just this side of triumphant and very pleased. "And you know that."

Legolas did, and so he dutifully administered the sleeping potion to his rather smug friend, waited until he fell asleep and then went to find Daervagor's messengers.

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TBC...**

_Noro, bereth nín (Sindarin) - Run, my queen. (Ráca's full name – Rácatári – means "Wolf-queen" in Quenya)  
Mabo i maethyr nín na dhôr veriannen (S.) - Carry my warriors to safety.  
gwanûr (S.) - (twin) brother  
tark (Black Speech) - Man of Gondor/of Númenórean heritage  
pushdug (B. S.) - 'dung-filth'  
snaga (B. S.) - 'slave' , used of the 'lesser' breeds of orcs  
orch (S.) - orc, goblin  
__Tôl acharn, a tolar muindyr nín. Gwannathach pain (S.) - Vengeance comes, and (so) do my brothers. You are all going to die. (Based on Húrin Thalion's exclamation of 'Tôl acharn!' Aragorn is feeling ... traditional. •_g•_)  
Dúnedain (sg.: dúnadan) (S.) - 'Men of the West', rangers  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend_

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Yes, Aragorn is pretty much screwed. Yes, the twins would be close to a heart attack if Elves could get heart attacks. Yes, Legolas is an idiot. Yes, I am evil. •g• So, the obvious question is clearly: Which Vala did they offend to deserve THIS? I am guessing Manw****ë. He always did strike me as the type to bear grudges... Anyway, in the next chapter everybody figures out just how screwed they are, Aragorn meets someone he knows, and the twins are not happy. Plus, there's the usual Doom and Gloom. Oh, and Blood and All That Stuff That Makes Skagrosh Happy. Did I mention this? No? Ah well. As always, reviews are love. I know I don't deserve them after keeping you waiting for so long, but a girl can hope, right?**

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**Additional A/N:**

Sincere apologies to Rainy, Kaytee and Tatsumaki-sama. I lost your email addresses or never had them, so I couldn't include you in the group email. I reply to reviews by email, so make sure that you have a valid email address on your profile page or remember to put your address in the right box if you wish to review anonymously. If you leave it in the main text body, FF-net will eat it. Sad but true. Sorry for the inconvenience!


	25. Though Shadows Overtake Us

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Yes, I DO live.**

**This might come as a surprise to a lot of people – mostly those who have been (politely) reminding me to **_**post already, woman!**_** –, but I really do. I have no idea how I managed a few years back – wait, no, I do know how I managed. I wasn't abroad half of the year and did my final exams during the other half. So, I am back from Israel/Portugal/Italy and have now another two weeks to study for my second oral exam. The last one I'll ever take! Since I just got back about three weeks ago, I am beginning to panic, only the slightest bit, of course. I am still not really done , and I only have another two days! *quivering* But it's only my future that hangs in the balance, so no worries. *more quivering* The review replies I am going to send as soon as I get back home tonight, I promise. They're ready and waiting in my Drafts folder.**

**But hey, it was all totally worth it. Israel was mostly great, I added Cat Nr. 7 to my mother's household – we named her Emma, since I was reading that when we found her – and our excavation was quite successful. We did find that stupid gate, after all, and only after four weeks of digging our way through over 2 metres of what felt like solid rock. It was ... surprising, to say the least. *g* So, hopefully, that will ensure funding for yet another campaign. That'd be great, because I am beginning to like that particular excavation site.**

**So, here is the next chapter. I am beginning to suspect that I won't be able to finish this bloody story in my lifetime. But still I persevere! Again, it's a long one, because this is my pathetic way of trying to make it up to you guys. You have to be the most patient people on this planet!**

**Enjoy and review, please!**

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Chapter 25

Waking up to an orc grinning down on you was never a particularly welcome sight, at least not if you weren't a complete idiot. Waking up to an orc grinning down on you who also happened to be dragging you down a corridor was by far worse, as Aragorn found out as he clawed his way back to consciousness.

He wasn't sure why he was doing it. The last thing he remembered – and he was using this term very loosely – was pain, and leering faces and far too many hands holding him down. The details escaped him like fog being driven apart by a strong breeze, and the part of him that was still capable of rational thought considered this a blessing. There were things you really did not want to remember, especially if you were already half out of your mind with fear.

Then again, he always had been a little stupid about such things.

He didn't know where he was being dragged, nor did he think that he really wanted to know. His left hip hit something solid, probably a wall of some sort, and his body seized this moment to shake off the lethargy and numbness that had temporarily smothered the agony consuming every single inch of him. He involuntarily let out a moan, which was immediately followed by a hoarse laugh uttered by the orc who was dragging him. A second later another one could be heard to his left, and Aragorn only now realised that another orc had a hold of his left arm and was helping to drag him along.

"Awake now, are we?" the orc whose face he had seen upon awakening asked, grinning with a mouth that definitely had more gaps than teeth. The creature stopped, jarring every single injury Aragorn had sustained over the past hours, and pain so fierce that it quite literally made it impossible to breathe lanced through the young ranger. It was all he could do not to cry out, and the following words reached him only very faintly. "Listen, maybe we could..."

"Skai!" the other voice exclaimed, jerking on Aragorn's arm to get them moving again. Awash in agony as he was, Aragorn hardly noticed the renewed pain that came from having someone pull at your arms which were quite securely lashed together. "Come on! Skagrosh's gonna have our heads if he finds out that we were playin' with his toy when he wasn't lookin'. Don't know about you, but I'd really not want that to happen."

Aragorn could almost feel the other orc's frustration and disappointment. Or rather, he could have if he hadn't been hurting so badly.

"Right you are," the first orc finally admitted grudgingly. "Don't matter anyways. He's been doin' 'nough screaming to last me a little while."

Aragorn's memory chose this moment to break free, and with his heartbeat racing – the only outward reaction for which he had the strength – he realised that the orc was right. He had been screaming, and had started doing it long before Skagrosh had decided that he had played enough with him lest he break his new toy before the time.

He didn't have the energy to feel shame or self-recrimination, though. Instead he clung to the very simple goal of "Don't make a sound, damn it!" with all the scattered concentration he still possessed. He truly managed not to do anything but moan quietly as his limp body was jostled again and again, even though he was very close to screaming in pain and fear and a strange, boiling anger that already bordered on wrath. It hadn't abated at all when they finally came to a stop.

He had lost the ability (or, really, the will) to keep his eyes open just after he had first looked upon the face of the creature hauling him down the tunnel of the cave, and so he only listened as the two orcs exchanged some words in their hideous tongue with some other, thankfully invisible guards. A moment later the two of them took a firmer hold of him, and before he knew what was happening, he was pushed forward. After a moment, he hit something very hard with a very, very audible thud.

The pain turned into raw, screaming agony that rose up in the exact same moment that coarse, orcish laughter echoed through the small space into which he had been thrown, and Aragorn curled up as best as he was able with his hands bound and his body on fire. For how long he lay there, he did not know, but it was definitely long enough for the orcs to lose interest in him and return to their duties or whatever it was that they did when they weren't torturing people. The faint torchlight he could see even through his closed eyelids disappeared with them, and the blackness of the cave returned to lay itself over everything it could reach. For once, Aragorn did not bemoan it and welcomed it gratefully. If he could not see anything, then nobody could see him either, and see how terrified and in how much pain he really was.

Very slowly Aragorn regained the ability to think clearly or, well, breathe. He had almost opened his eyes halfway – the most energetic action he felt up to at the moment – when something touched his shoulder. It took some more moments for him to realise what that meant, and the subsequent jolt of adrenaline was enough for him at least try and struggle into a sitting position.

He did not get very far. The movement pulled at the raw patches of flesh littering his torso and arms, and the pain rose like a living, greedy creature that consumed him whole. He fell back against the wall with a mixture of a cry and a curse, his voice hoarse from the screaming he could remember only too clearly now.

There was that touch against his bare shoulder again, this time continuing down the entire left side of his body, touching the skinned patches and seemingly every single cut and bruise. Panic bubbling inside of him, Aragorn tried to scramble backwards, but he was too weak and couldn't get any traction on the smooth ground. It had to be another orc, a panicky voice inside of him whispered, an orc that would be able to see him far better and easier in this darkness than he it. Alarm and fear gave him the strength to lift his head even despite the renewed pain pulsing through him.

It was almost too dark to see, but in the end Aragorn made out a small shadow next to his foot. It was a rat. An adventurous rat, surely, but still a rat. He had probably landed almost on top of it when he had been thrown into the cave, so it had a reason to be curious and slightly irritated. Aragorn, however, wasn't exactly in a mood to be understanding, and so he weakly tried to kick the rodent aside, telling it exactly where it could go for all he cared.

He missed by at least a mile. He couldn't see the rat clearly – could see no more than a blurry shadow, really – but he was almost completely sure that it quivered its whiskers in a derogatory fashion while it skittered away. That was all right, Aragorn though, completely disjointed. He didn't like it overly much, either.

The animal scurried over to the entrance of the small cave and turned the corner. Since the room was barely more than six or seven square yards, it needed only a second or two to cross it. It disappeared out of the small space in the moment that one of the orc guards shifted and grunted, momentarily obscuring what little light filtered in through the ragged opening, and Aragorn found himself flinching back unconsciously. The orc didn't make a move to enter the little cell and only seemed to lash out with a booted foot – the resulting squeaking signalled that it had hit the rat and kicked it down the passageway. Aragorn forced himself to relax, aware of the fact that his abused body screamed in protest and disgusted at his own moment of mind-blanking panic.

A noise interrupted his thoughts, then, and for a short, scatterbrained moment Aragorn thought that it was another rat that had started talking to him. Then he thought that he had either been hit over the head harder than he'd thought or, possibly, that he was beginning to go insane. Particularly the latter he would have understood. But then it came again, and through the haze of pain and fear and anger he heard a voice that seemed to come from behind him where there was nothing but solid rock.

"Strider? Estel?"

For a second, Aragorn could only stare at the darkness in front of his eyes, feeling as if someone had just hit him over the head, and with a cudgel at that, or an iron-studded club or something similarly solid. The sudden explosion of relief that threatened to leave him faint came a second later, and he slowly let out a deep breath.

"H-Halbarad?" He hated himself for the weakness and hesitation in his voice, but there was nothing for it. He hadn't lost consciousness again, which was definitely the best he could do right now.

It was silent for a moment, long enough for someone to shrug and and realise that the other couldn't see the gesture.

"Yes, well ... I was wondering when you would turn up."

"I ... what?" Aragorn finally whispered back. It wasn't the most eloquent question he had ever asked, but he rather doubted that his fellow prisoner was in any condition to notice.

He tried to figure out where Halbarad's voice came from (except for 'somewhere behind you'), but he soon gave up. His eyes hadn't got used to the darkness yet and he was in too much pain to move much, and so he decided that it must be some kind of fissure that had split the rock wall between their two cells and that allowed them to hear each other. The orcs standing in front of his cell didn't seem to care that he was apparently talking to himself, and in two different voices at that. For a brief moment, Aragorn was thankful that their captors were, in fact, orcs. The average human guard would have come to investigate a long time ago.

He did have some experience in this area, after all, so he should know.

"These things always seem to happen to you," the other ranger went on. His voice sounded muffled, but not too far away, and so Aragorn decided that he really had to be more or less on the other side of the wall at his back. "Ciryon told me about it. He heard it from the elves."

And because his brothers said it, it just _had _to be true, a small, sarcastic part of Aragorn noted. Most rangers seemed to think so, however, and who was he to rob them of so carefully preserved illusions?

"Halbarad," he breathed, closing his eyes and silently thanking whichever Vala had seen it fit to be merciful. "I ... we thought you were dead."

"I am not," his cousin's voice assured him. "Not yet, anyway."

"Are you all right?" Aragorn pressed him, wishing he could do something more to express his urgency. As it was, he could do little more than shift slightly.

"No, I am not all right," Halbarad replied with disarming frankness. "I think I should be worried if I were."

Aragorn almost would have shrugged. Halbarad had a point there.

"Where are you?" he asked instead.

"I don't know," Halbarad retorted, quite predictably. Even though his voice sounded hollow and slightly distorted, he also sounded very lost, and Aragorn would have liked to kick himself, if he hadn't been bound, in a cave so small that he could barely turn around and, well, one step away from losing consciousness again. Which, thinking about it now, might be a really good idea.

"I don't, either," he admitted.

"I don't think that I am right next to you," Halbarad went on, sounding as if he was doing nothing more than discuss the weather. "I think this is a crack of some sort, or a fissure. But it is deep and seems to twist, because I can't see you."

"I can't see anything," Aragorn retorted. "Not even my own feet, really."

"You'll get used to it," was the wry answer. "Wait a few days, and you will not be able to comprehend how you couldn't have seen it all in the beginning."

Oh yes, Aragorn thought sarcastically. Something to look forward to.

"Can you move?" Halbarad whispered.

"No," Aragorn had to tell him. "They have done quite a good job tying me up. And there are two guards in front of my cell. Even if I wasn't tied up, I doubt that I would get past even one of them."

"I am familiar with the problem."

"Are you...?"

"I am as well as can be expected, considering the circumstances. I am chained to the wall," Halbarad answered his question. "There is a guard as well. He doesn't much care what I do, though, as long as I don't give him any trouble."

"Ah." Aragorn had to force down a swell of disappointment. Orcs may not be the most intelligent creatures on Arda, but even they knew better than to leave prisoners unattended if there were no sturdy cell doors available. "Still, Halbarad ... you have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice. I would have wished it to happen under more auspicious circumstances, but..."

A sudden coughing fit shook him, and he broke off, curling up even tighter to protect his hurting ribs and the skinned parts of his chest. His arm let him know in no unclear terms that the part of it that had been skewered by an orc scimitar didn't enjoy such sudden movements at all, joining the cacophony of complaints, and he gritted his teeth against the uncontrollable coughing and the scream that was building at the back of his throat. Speaking was suddenly unimportant and highly overrated, and everything ceased to exist for an unspecified amount of time. When the world swam back into focus, it was to the sound of Halbarad's nervous voice, calling his name.

"Estel? Estel! Can you hear me? Answer me!"

"I ... can hear you," Aragorn gasped out. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, doubly noticeable because he was completely parched, and he closed his eyes. It had to be one of the cuts inside his mouth that had started bleeding again, he told himself firmly. It couldn't be that he had injured a lung, because he absolutely refused to die choking on his own blood. "Just ... need a moment..."

"What happened?" Halbarad asked back. "Are you all right?"

"I am fine," Aragorn assured him, even though he couldn't remember a time when he had ever been less all right in his entire life. "Don't ... don't worry about it."

He couldn't see Halbarad's face – nor would he have been able to if the younger ranger had been sitting right next to him, because it was really far too dark to see anything – but he could very well imagine the incredulous look on his face. His cousin might have inherited his temper from his mother, but sometimes he was so much like his father that it became immediately apparent whose son he was.

"I ... don't worry about it?" The younger ranger asked him predictably enough. His muted voice sounded honestly scandalised. "You ... I – just tell me what they did to you."

Aragorn laughed, no matter what his body had to say on the matter. He couldn't help it, even though he knew that his companion would not thank him for it. Most people tended not to be too thrilled about their fellow prisoners suddenly laughing like maniacs. Objectively, he rather understood.

"Estel."

Halbarad's voice interrupted him in mid-hyena-like howl, sounding very much like the captain when he was especially exasperated, and he forced himself to stop and cling to the last shreds of his sanity. It wouldn't do to convince his cousin that he was a madman before he even knew that he _was _his cousin. He was sure that there was some sort of logic in that statement somewhere.

"I ... there is nothing you can do," he said, trying to find a way to make his words sound even slightly less hopeless. "There ... really ... isn't."

"I know that." Halbarad sounded flat and defeated, and not only because of the rock that distorted the sound of his voice. "Valar, I do. But ... please, Strider. Tell me what happened. What are you doing here? How did they get you? Tell me the truth. _Please_."

Aragorn closed his eyes again, finding that he would rather not see the shadows of his guards move as they shifted from foot to foot. Orcs were not the most patient of races, and having to stand still while guarding a prisoner with whom they could be playing if their commander was just a little more generous did not sit well with them. Halbarad knew as well as he did that there was nothing either of them could do but sit back and pray for a rescue that might – couldwouldwill – never happen. And that sat well with neither of them.

"We were ... unlucky," he replied, wondering if this sounded as stupid out loud as it sounded in his head. "Serothlain, Lhanton, Ereneth and I stumbled over some tracks. Before we knew what was happening, we were dragged off our horses and hit over the head."

"Yes," Halbarad said evenly. "They like doing that."

Halbarad did not ask what had happened after Cemendur and he had been taken, or what the others were doing, and Aragorn understood why. The cave he was in was open towards the tunnel he had been dragged down, and even though Aragorn suspected that the orcs standing guard didn't really care what he did as long as he didn't try to make a run for it, they very well might.

Halbarad was silent for another moment before he added, "Did the others...?"

"Ereneth made it back, I am sure," Aragorn assured him with far more conviction than he felt. "Serothlain sent him back to report before we were ambushed. He and Lhanton ... they will have made it, too. Ráca is fast. She would have outrun them. I think."

There were things waiting to be said about inspiration of confidence and the like, but Halbarad never did. That either meant that he had sounded a lot more positive than he had sounded to himself, or Halbarad was in a much worse shape than he let on. Still, there were things that the younger ranger didn't have to know, like the fact that Lhanton and Serothlain might very well have tumbled off Ráca's back in a dead faint before getting anywhere close to the village.

"You sent them back with that horse?" Halbarad asked. There was faint amusement in his voice even despite the echoes being carried along with it through the fissure. "That might have been ... counterproductive."

"Ráca is a perfectly nice horse," Aragorn defended his mount automatically. "A bit ... different, yes, but _determined_. She will have borne them to safety, even if she had to take them by the scruffs of their necks and drag them."

"That, I do believe." There was a pause, and then Halbarad added, "What did they do to you, Estel?"

"Halbarad," he began, resisting the urge to take a deep breath because he just knew that it would end with him doubling over coughing once more. "There is nothing..."

"Please, Estel. I have to know. Can you walk?"

There was so much raw hope in the younger ranger's voice that Aragorn's heart clenched in sympathy. He knew what he was really asking. Halbarad had been sitting here, in the darkness and surrounded by orcs, and then, finally, came someone who was supposed to be older and wiser than him. Someone who, if one could believe the strangely vague tales of the elves, had extricated himself from similar situations in the past. Someone who represented every last shred of hope he was still holding onto.

Someone who had genuinely no idea how to get out of this cave, except as a corpse.

He thought about the way his left side hurt whenever he took a breath, and the all-too-familiar grating sound that accompanied each inhalation. He thought about the stab wound he had suffered when he had been captured, and the way the world was spinning when he moved his head too quickly. He thought about the agony consuming his chest and left arm, and what they had looked like before he had lost consciousness, just after Skagrosh had ripped off another bit of his skin.

"I ... I don't think so," he finally answered honestly. "Not fast enough to escape. There are simply too many of them. Even if we were both healthy, we would never make it out of the caves alive."

There was nothing but a deep silence to answer him. Aragorn hated himself for having to tell his cousin that there was no easy way out, no extravagant plan that would save the two of them. But there wasn't, and he was in too much pain and too busy trying not to panic – Skagrosh would do what he could to break him, Skagrosh would keep him alive until the Master came, the Master was _looking for him _– to pretend otherwise.

"Your ... the captain will know what happened," Aragorn said instead, not really knowing if he said it to reassure Halbarad or himself. "And, Valar, so will my brothers. They will find us."

"They won't."

Aragorn looked up sharply; it didn't matter that Halbarad couldn't see him. There was defeat in the younger man's voice, dark defeat of the kind that paralysed you with fear and dread and fatalism.

"They will," he simply repeated, because he couldn't say anything else. If he seriously allowed himself to consider the possibility that they might not be found, he would be lost, and so would Halbarad. He was not prepared to survive all this to have to tell his dead father's best friend that he had lost his only son. "You do not know my brothers like I do, Halbarad. They will not rest before they have found us, and Eru help whoever or whatever gets in their way."

"It does not matter." Halbarad whispered, his voice so expressionless that he might as well have been stating the fact that rain was wet. "Cemendur is dead. They killed him three days ago, I think. It might have been longer; it is hard to keep track of time down here."

Aragorn took a deep breath, the images from his nightmares mingling with the image of the still, broken body they had glimpsed in the clearing before the teeming masses of orcs had blotted out everything else, and for a moment the agony pulsing through his body receded enough for him to truly feel the grief he had had no time to acknowledge. Cemendur had not exactly been a friend of his and would surely have been a thorn in his side in the years to come, but, Morgoth take it, no one deserved to die like this, and most certainly not Daervagor's friend.

"I know," he said softly, wishing he had the strength to do what he so desperately wanted, namely to take his sword and not put it down before the blade was covered with black blood. The rage was once again throbbing through him in rhythm with his heartbeat, and he clung to it with all his strength. "We ... we found his body just before they ambushed us."

"It took him almost a day to die," Halbarad went on as if he hadn't even spoken. "In the end he cut his throat, right in front of my eyes, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. He will do the same to us, if we are lucky."

"'He'?" Aragorn asked, even though he knew the answer in his bones and his very heart. "Halbarad, who did this?"

"I do not know," the younger ranger said, his voice almost dreamy in its disassociation. "He wore a hood every time I saw him, and his voice sounds ... hollow, as if it comes from a long way away."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Aragorn pressed. The other did not answer, and so he added, "Please, Halbarad, it may be important."

"When he killed Cemendur," Halbarad told him after a second. "I have not seen him since."

The mixture of hopelessness and utter expressionlessness in his voice truly began to frighten Aragorn, or would have if he hadn't been feeling so close to fainting.

"What did they do to you?" he asked as gently as he could. "Halbarad, answer me! What did they do?"

This time, it was Halbarad's turn to laugh maniacally.  
"Nothing. A few cracked ribs, maybe, and a few bruises and cuts – nothing. Over the past few days they've barely touched me."

"Halbarad," Aragorn began carefully, "You understand that they..."

"I know what they are doing," Halbarad cut him off almost brutally. "They are keeping me in suspense. They are trying to unsettle me, so that they can catch me off balance when they finally do come for me." He laughed humourlessly. "So far, it is working."

"Halbarad," Aragorn said again, wishing that there was a way to reassure him. "We are going to be found. Trust me. My brothers will find us. They _will_."

"I can't." Halbarad's voice came out of the darkness, hollow and lost and sounding so very, very young. "I wish with all my heart I could, but I can't. They killed him, Estel, right in front of my eyes, and all I could do was _watch_."

He fell silent after that and would not speak more than a word or two even when pressed, and so Aragorn slumped back against the cold wall, shivering so strongly that the resultant pain made him nauseous.

One by one, the shadows crowding around him seemed to press in on him, reaching for him with dark, wraith-like fingers, and Aragorn closed his eyes, turned his face towards the wall and wished that he could believe his own words just a little more.  
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**Haldar had been staring at the same area of the wall for the past two or three hours, and now knew everything there was to know about this particular stretch of the rough stone wall in front of him. He knew that the stone on the bottom right side was chipped at the corner, that the mortar had been scraped away in several spots (by, as he happened to know, mischievous and far too industrious boys who had been punished most severely as a result), and that years of smoke and use had darkened the once light grey stones to an almost black colour. It was dark in the narrow passage since there were no windows, but it was not too dark for someone as keen-eyed as a ranger.

Still he looked, because there was nothing else to do. Or rather, there were other things to do, but he was willing and prepared to go to great lengths to procrastinate, especially when it concerned walking down the corridor and doing what he should have done hours, if not days ago. It was barely the eighth hour yet, which was why he allowed himself to do this. No one would be going anywhere before the scouts were back and had reported, and that would take at least an hour yet.

He sighed and leaned his head against the wall. He was not arrogant enough to believe that there wasn't someone who, in the entire history of Arda, had somewhere, somehow failed worse than he had. Right now, such a case didn't come to mind, however. Celebrimbor of Eregion was a likely candidate, but, as Haldar had to admit, there had been extenuating circumstances. He had been up against the Dark Lord himself, for one. Sauron in disguise was still Sauron.

Haldar beat his head against the wall not very softly, this time not even pretending that any leaning was taking place. He had failed so badly and in so many ways that he was very, very sure that there was no redemption for him. He had been given a very simple task, both by the captain and Lord Elrond: Take care of Estel. The "_and don't lose him"_ had been left unspoken, but he was rather sure that the elf lord would not react well to a stammered explanation of "...and that was the point when I allowed the Heir of Isildur to be captured by orcs, who killed him in a very messy way."

He wasn't the only one blaming himself. The Lords Elladan and Elrohir, while difficult to get along with before (at least for him), were very close to impossible now. They barely talked to anybody anymore, with the possible exception of the captain. The older twin kept glaring at everybody and everything, but it was clear that, more than anything else, he blamed himself to a degree that had sucked all life out of his usually calm and shining grey eyes. His brother wasn't doing much better, even though he seemed to glare at Hírgaer a little less than at others.

Haldar, having had a brother himself, knew that the reason for Lord Elrohir's behaviour had to be a kind of solidarity of someone trying to keep his sibling from messy and not-so-spontaneous combustion. Ereneth was, if possible, even harder to tolerate than usual, appearing torn between anger and guilt and the overwhelming urge to kill the next person who looked at him with dubious eyes. Haldar knew of at least two instances where only Hírgaer's quick and decisive actions had prevented bloodshed. Granted, Ereneth's brother had then gone on to show the men in question just what he thought of people disrespecting his younger brother, but at least everybody involved had walked away from those confrontations. Or staggered, in one case.

The rest of the company had taken a page out of the elf lords' book and was wavering between rage, doubt and fear. Lhanton had regained consciousness, had somehow survived the subsequent questioning by the twins and Captain Daervagor, and had then managed to find a hiding place somewhere in the village where not even Lord Elrond's sons could find him, having been forbidden to join the search parties due to his injuries. The one time Haldar had seen him, the younger man had been mortified, thoroughly disbelieving of what he had done or rather not done. Haldar could have told him that, once Estel had made up his mind, there was nothing any of them – the sons of Elrond included – could have done to stop him, but he supposed he was just petty enough not to.

Serothlain had not regained consciousness at all. Neither the sons of Elrond nor Hasteth, his fiancée who, as Amlaith had already had to find out, was a healer that was unwilling or at least highly ill-prepared to tolerate stupidity or obtuseness, could bring him around. Hasteth had been at her fiancé's side ever since he had been brought to the village, and, as far as Haldar knew, his cousin hadn't shed a single tear. It wasn't her style, or, rather, not the style of most _Dúnedenith_ to break down weeping in such situations. She had been utterly dry-eyed and competent, but there was a brittleness about her that suggested that more than just her composure would break should Serothlain continue to be so idiotically stubborn and keep refusing to wake up.

Serothlain, Haldar had decided a long time ago, was one of the most breathtakingly stubborn people in the world.

"Haldar?" a soft voice asked, and a small hand touched him lightly on the arm. It wasn't a soft hand, though, with calluses that he could easily feel through the thin material of his shirt, and Haldar would have known who was addressing him even if he hadn't recognised the voice.

"Bania," he said, turning his head to look at the young woman in front of him. Knowing that it was a helpless question, he still asked, "Shouldn't you be with your sister?"

The woman in front of him merely looked at him. Even for one of the Dúnedain, she was very beautiful, with light skin, dark hair and the kind of soulful dark-grey eyes that a man could drown in if he wasn't careful. Cemendur hadn't even tried, those few years ago when he had first come to this village. Now, however, the lively spirit that had captivated the commander upon first sight was dulled, and Bania wore her beauty like a mask. Her face _was_ a mask, too, one painted with dark lines that only hinted at the features and expressed no emotion at all.

Bania arched one fine eyebrow in the faint expression of blank incredulity, as if she couldn't quite believe what he had just said. Haldar, who knew that his way of dealing with grieving women was at least slightly questionable, had no such trouble, and was not overly surprised by her reaction.

"I had to get away from the other women for a while," Bania said, withdrawing her hand. In the other one she held a candlestick, and as she brought it up higher, Haldar was once again shocked at how little of her there was left in her once-stunning eyes. "They mean well, but I cannot stand their _looks_. And besides ... I keep imagining I can see the pyre from the bedroom window, if I only try hard enough."

If Haldar hadn't considered it another point on his "Don't do this when speaking to the widows of your newly deceased comrades" list, he would have closed his eyes and beat his head against the wall, _again_. He had never really talked to Bania a lot – they were neither related nor hailed from the same settlement, and the commander and he had been neither friends nor close enough in rank to socialise. But he had brought the worst possible news to far too many families, and the look of quiet despair on Bania's face was only too familiar.

"The scouts will return soon enough," he said instead, having decided that stating the obvious was by far preferable to trying to beat himself unconscious. It would be politer, for one. "You will need your strength then, Bania."

Bania smiled. It was a crooked little smile that died as soon as it appeared.  
"And then Daervagor will light the pyre and it will be over and you will all leave, and I will never see him again."

Bania had only been allowed to see Cemendur after they had done their best to conceal what damage they could. There had been many more injuries that no one in this world would have been able to hide by whatever means, but they had done their best. Cemendur – or what had been left of him – had looked a little more like a person afterwards, and even though nothing and no one could truly have prepared Bania for the grisly sight of her husband's body, they had at least given her this small, but still unmerciful reprieve. No one should see their spouse like _that_.

She had been strong, of course, at least when they were there to witness it. All she had done was touch Cemendur's cold, grey forehead with the softest of touches, her fingers barely making contact at all. After that, she had merely looked down on his ravaged face with such chilling calm that the captain beckoned Haldar and the others to leave, and they had filed out of the room, leaving a still Bania alone with her dead husband.

"I am sorry, Bania," Haldar said softly. He had not said it before, unable to speak to this silent, expressionless stranger who had replaced the woman whose beauty and spirit he had admired for many years. He was a happily married man, yes, but, Valar, he had eyes, hadn't he? "I am sorry we didn't find him before..."

"Don't," Bania cut him off, lifting dark-grey eyes to look at him. For the first time since they had brought back the commander's body, there was a sparkle of _something_ in their depths. "Don't, Haldar. I don't blame anybody, not Daervagor, not you or anybody else here. I blame only those who killed him."

"We will find them," Haldar said automatically, but there was barely a hint of conviction in his voice. He had said the words so many times now that not even the stoutest of optimists could have remained convinced of their truthfulness.

"And then you will kill them," Bania finished his thought for him. "And while my husband shall be avenged, he will still be dead."

"Yes," Haldar admitted. "But his _f__aer_ will find peace in the Halls of Mandos, and he will be able to sit with his ancestors with his pride and honour intact."

"Yes," the young woman said, with a terribly twisted smile on her face. "I do believe that that would please him."

"But it will not please you."

"I am as much one of the Dúnedain as you, Haldar," Bania said, with a calmness that was much more frightening than anger. "Of course it will please me. But it will not give me comfort, nor grant me what I wish for with all my heart."

"I know." Haldar bowed his head. "I know that it is not the same, but my brother..."

"He is one of the ones who disappeared," Bania finished his sentence, sudden understanding in her eyes. Compassion joined it a moment later, and for the first time since he had admitted to himself that Belen was dead, Haldar did not resent it. "I grieve with you, Haldar."

"And I with you," Haldar replied, the formal words bringing him some small measure of comfort. "I promised myself that I would avenge my brother, and I will do what I can to avenge your husband, too. I know that it is only a small comfort, especially right now, but it is all I and the others can offer you."

"It is something I readily accept," the young woman said and impatiently raised a hand to wipe away a trickle of tears that gleamed silver in the flickering candlelight. "Forgive me. I promised myself that I would not spend the last few hours that I have with my husband weeping."

"There is nothing to forgive," Haldar said gently. A part of him was almost disconcerted by Bania's iron composure. "It is more than understandable."

"And it would be pointless," Bania retorted, her voice almost brutal. "There will be time for that later. Should a part of Cemendur still be here to see it, to see _me_, I want him to see me strong and proud, and not weeping uncontrollably."

Even all things considered, Haldar had a hard time imagining Bania weeping uncontrollably. If she had been a warrior, she would have been of the kind that would barely have blinked if her entire company had been killed and she had been pinned to a tree by a spear. She would have killed those responsible, patched herself up, buried her comrades, made the report to her superiors and then, when all was said and done and she was alone, she would have cried, and not a single second earlier.

"Can I ... help you somehow?" he finally said, when it became clear that she had no intention of leaving. No matter how many times he had had to bring the news of one of his comrades' deaths to a loved one, he still didn't know what to do and say. "We are most grateful for your hospitality, especially now. The elf lords have a lot on their minds right now, so..."

"They do indeed," Bania agreed solemnly. There was that touch of awe in her eyes that almost anybody who hadn't had a lot of dealings with the Firstborn displayed upon first meeting them. Not even two days of being glared at almost continually had managed to diminish the wonder. "And I cannot help but sympathise, now that the boy is missing. I know what they are going through."

Haldar knew that, on an emotional level, she was right, but she couldn't even begin to grasp the true concept of the catastrophe. Lord Elrond's sons had lost a young man they had called their brother for twenty years and undoubtedly loved as such, but they had also lost the Heir of Isildur. If they did not find Estel in the next twenty-four hours, they would most likely not find him alive, and there would be no redemption for any of them, and no hope for all of Arda.

"They are very focussed on their search," he said instead, deciding to phrase the twins' obsessive, frantic behaviour in the most diplomatic way possible. "They have been making some progress."

"I am glad to hear it," Bania replied, that same dull blankness having returned to her features. "But it is not them I am concerned about."

Now that was just not true, Haldar thought absently while Bania hesitated and righted the candle when it looked as if it might topple over. Bania might be fearless, but everybody was concerned about the twins, and with good reason. Elves were intimidating to begin with, but driven elves – and sons of Elrond to boot – were a sight to behold. And not in a good sense.

"I worry about Daervagor," she finally went on, when the candle had been returned to its upright position. There was uncharacteristic hesitation in her voice, and Haldar looked up. "He is ... frankly, he is beginning to frighten me." She smiled thinly. "There is not much that frightens me anymore, Haldar."

Haldar, who, before he had come to Rivendell and seen the last hope of his people look at him with his beautiful mother's eyes, used to think that nothing but a threat to his wife and children could possibly frighten him, could understand her only too well. While there had been a sort of wild, desperate hope to the captain before Aragorn had been taken and Commander Cemendur's body found, there was nothing but blank, utter despair now. Halbarad might not be dead yet – even though many of them thought it better if he were, in fact –, but all hope seemed to have been lost to his father in the moment that he had found out about the second ambush.

Haldar had served under Captain Daervagor ever since the older ranger had stepped forward and taken Lord Arathorn's place, white and with visibly shaking hands, and he didn't for a second think that it was only Halbarad's and Estel's disappearance that had shaken the older man so extraordinarily. The captain was a ranger to the core, and had accepted the very real possibility of losing his only son in the very moment that Halbarad had joined the companies. No parent should have to bury their children, but both Halbarad and Daervagor had known what consequences their duties might entail.

Estel ... well, that was a different thing entirely. Haldar didn't know what exactly it was that stood between the captain and their chieftain and didn't think it any of his business until one of them told him, but he knew that Daervagor loved the boy. He might not be able or willing to show it, but any father would be able to see it. It would have hit the older man hard to lose him, too, so soon after his own son, and he _was_ the Heir of Elendil. To the sense of private loss and guilt and shame there came the mortification of what he, of what _they _had allowed to happen. The thought of having to travel to Rivendell and tell a grieving Lord Elrond that they had allowed the last heir of his long-dead brother to be taken – to be tortured and killed – was more than he himself could bear. It had to be twenty times worse for the captain.

But that was not all. He might never have truly understood it, but Captain Daervagor and Commander Cemendur had been friends. They had grown up together, Cemendur being only slightly younger, and when the commander had joined his friend's company, it had been impossible not to see the elation in both of them. They had been apart very seldom from that point on, and Cemendur had been the closest friend Daervagor had had since Lord Arathorn's death.

How the man could still function, Haldar did not know. _He _had lost his brother, and had very nearly been blinded by hate and grief and rage, at least until he had forced them to the back of his mind to make place for the all-consuming need for vengeance. Daervagor had lost his son, his dead chieftain's son and his best friend. All things considered, he was remarkably calm for that.

"He frightens me, too," was all he said in the end. And it was true. The captain had never been the most cheerful and positive of people – at least not while he had known him –, but _this _... well, this was something entirely different. It made Haldar fear for the future of the company. "He is..."

He broke off. There was no way to describe his superior officer's behaviour that wouldn't sound at least slightly disrespectful.

"He is behaving erratically," Bania said what he could not. "Can you not talk to him? He is ... he was my husband's best friend, and one of mine as well, or so I hope."

Haldar would almost have laughed.  
"There is no one he is going to listen to, my lady," he said. "The only one would have been..."

"Cemendur," the young woman finished his sentence. "Yes, I know that very well. And the elves...?"

"Are most likely not going to be much help," Haldar said, deciding to rob her of this illusion as soon as possible. "They are very ... preoccupied at the moment."

He was almost proud of himself. This was a rather nice way of putting it. Maybe he was going to be able to describe the captain in a flattering way in the near future, too.

"I see," Bania said calmly. "Excuse me, then."

Haldar blinked, stunned. Bania would have made a terribly effective commander, if she had ever put her mind to it. To his substantial and guilty relief, she never had. The light retreated as the young woman walked down the corridor, and he hurried after her before the last bit of her long dark hair could disappear around the corner. Knowing that she was doing what he should have done, what he had avoided doing for the past hour or so, did not help either.

He reached the small room a couple of seconds after Cemendur's widow. It had been a small lounge, or rather it still was. But the house was small and somewhat crooked, and there were barely any rooms big enough for more than two or three people at a time. So the lounge was where they had laid out Cemendur's body, and where Daervagor had spent the entire night and the morning.

When Haldar entered the lounge, he saw that the captain had not moved since he had reported to him at dawn, just as he had not moved since he had sat down once Bania had retired yesterday evening. He was still sitting on one of the two chairs that remained in the darkened room, the shutters closed tightly and blocking out the sunlight. He was facing the makeshift bed where they had laid Cemendur, his back to the door.

Bania had stepped forward, unafraid of the captain's unmoved behaviour. In all honesty, Haldar wasn't even sure if the other man had noticed their entrance, so fixedly was he staring at the still, ravaged face of his dead friend. The candle Bania had set on the small table to the right was just enough to cast a faint light over the scene.

"It will be time soon, Captain," she said, stepping around the chair to stand next to the sitting man. Haldar noticed that she very deliberately did not look at the body of her husband, her eyes fixed on the back of Daervagor's head. "They will arrive in less than half an hour."

So they would, Haldar realised. The honour guard would arrive soon, to carry the commander's body to the pyre. It would be Daervagor who would lead them, and who, as his commanding officer as well as his friend, would light the fire.

"Yes."

It was all that Daervagor said, spoken in such an emotionless tone of voice that it made even Bania pause. She took a deep breath, and added, "Will you be ready to lead them, my lord? He would have wished you to do it."

At that a sound broke from the captain's throat that was almost a laugh and almost a sob and still neither.

"He did," Daervagor confirmed. "We spoke about it once in a while, whenever the situation called for it. I never wanted to, but I promised him I would do it. It is the last honour I can do him."

"You can honour his memory, my lord," Bania retorted, her voice soft. "You can avenge him, and return this small measure of honour to his _faer_."

"No one can do that," Daervagor said bluntly. "Cemendur is dead. They took him, and now he is dead."

"Yes, he is," Bania said in a whisper. "He is dead, and I do not blame you."

"How can you not?" Daervagor finally lifted his head. His eyes were almost wild in his pale face, and there were dark, deep shadows under his eyes that were only emphasised by the heavy stubble covering his cheeks. "I blame myself. I should have given him a larger guard. I should have found him sooner. I should never have sent him here in the first place."

"Only the One knows all and sees all," the young woman said, her eyes downcast. "You did not know what would happen."

"Maybe I should have." The captain had no intention of giving up so easily, Haldar saw. It did not come as a surprise. "I made a mistake."

"Maybe you did," Bania agreed and nodded her head. "Maybe it was a mistake to send him here. Maybe it was a mistake to come here yourself. Maybe it was a mistake that we did not to flee in the first place when the danger became apparent. But it does not matter. You did what you thought was right, and no one could ask for more."

"I do what I think is right, and my best friend and my son are taken," Daervagor said bitterly. "I do what I think is right, and I find my friend dead. I do what I think is right, and..."

"Do not give up on Halbarad and Estel just yet, sir," Haldar said from his position at the door, unable to bear his captain's words any longer. "We have had no word from the scouts yet. They are still alive. I _know _they are."

He did not know whether or not Daervagor had even heard his words. The older man did not react to his words, and only continued looking at his friend's widow. Haldar, who knew what an intensely private man the captain was, only started to become even more frightened.

"My error of judgement took my best friend from me," Daervagor began slowly. "He always supported and believed in me, and his sound judgement and his strength I shall miss dearly. Most of all, I shall miss _him_." He paused and swallowed heavily. "But I also took him from you, Bania. I took your husband from you. That, more than anything else, I never wanted to do. _He _never wanted me to do that, and it is something I will regret to the end of my days."

"He was a ranger, Captain." Now, finally, the tears were beginning to fall again, and fresh grief darkened the dark-grey eyes further. "He was a ranger long before he met me, long before he was my husband. He knew how it might all end, and so did I."

"As did I," Daervagor replied with a tremulous smile. "And now I will do what I always dreaded: I will have to light his pyre."

"He would have wanted no one else to do it," Bania said, tears still streaming down her face. "I will stand by you, and together we will honour his wishes and his memory." She reached out with a small, white hand and placed it gently on the captain's shoulder. "It was not your fault, Daervagor."

Daervagor bowed his head wordlessly, his shoulders shaking the tiniest bit. The two of them remained like this, standing silently in front of Cemendur's body, and Haldar turned around and left. For them, he might as well not have been in the room, but the moment was such a private one and so full of strong, personal grief which he in all honesty did not share that he couldn't help but feel like an intruder. He had not been friends with Cemendur, hadn't even liked him, truth to be told, and he found it hard to watch the captain and Bania – two of the most private people he knew – grieve him so deeply and openly.

He closed the door behind him and slowly walked down the corridor. There were things to be done. He had to decide who was to be part of the search parties today and who would remain behind and guard the village. He had to talk to Lord Elrond's sons to co-ordinate the search, he had to talk to the elders, he had to issue rations and address all the thousands of things that were part of maintaining a group of armed men. Naurdholen and also Lhanton, when he could be found, had been shouldering many of his duties, but it was not fair of him to leave everything to them. Suddenly, he was very ashamed of his brief spell of self-pity.

And if he had anything to say about it, he would make sure that there were no complications with the funeral. Technically, it was the captain's duty, but he would be damned if he burdened the other ranger with any more things.

Later, Haldar would be well-aware of the fact that he, as an experienced ranger of 47 years of age, should have known better. He should have known better than to make plans like "Make sure there are no complications". He had barely stepped out of the house, blinking into the rising sun owlishly while his eyes got used to the sudden sunlight, when the sound of hoofbeat could be heard, and a second later three riders came cantering through the freshly re-fortified gate. The village wasn't all that big and the gate therefore not very far from the village square, and so Haldar had no problem identifying them.

Two of them were rangers, which was a good start, and they had been expected, which was even better, considering how things were going at the moment. The one one of the left was Torthagyl, who was a very capable warrior, his slightly worrying controlling tendencies put aside. Next to him rode Nestir's brother Belvathor, a young ranger who had yet to exhibit the same gruff, healerly attitude as his brother and was considered one of the most easygoing warriors of the company. The two of them had, together with Naurdholen, survived the nightly orc attack in which they had lost the commander and Halbarad without serious injury and without being taken. Haldar still was not sure for which of the two the three of them blamed themselves more.

Yesterday, Belvathor and Torthagyl had been sent back to the camp, to report to Eldacar and make sure everything was all right. Eldacar would send on the – frankly disastrous – report to the rest of the captains, who would in turn warn all villages and outposts they could reach. The situation was spiralling out of control, and no matter how little any of them wanted to admit it openly, the rest of the Dúnedain had to be warned.

That they were back, and apparently in one piece, was a very good thing, and Haldar was glad. That they had brought Prince Legolas with them was not.

Haldar slowly and deliberately closed his eyes and then opened them again one after the other. No, the fair-haired elf was still riding towards him, white-faced and with what looked like a death grip on his horse's mane. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and a leather jerkin which effectively hid the bandages and most other signs of his injuries, but there were still the fading bruises on his face that stood out against his pale skin. Besides, Haldar was one of the few people who had actually got a good look at the elf prince back in that orc cave, and he had a fair idee of the kind of injuries the prince would be recuperating from, miraculous healing or not.

Having ascertained that the elf was, in fact, real and showing no signs of or inclination to disappear in a cloud of pink smoke, Haldar squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. It was not a moment too soon, it appeared, because the Lords Elrohir and Elladan chose this moment to appear between the houses, talking quietly to each other. They fell silent in the moment they saw the fair-haired elf, and if the intensity of their gazes was anything to go by, they had a word or two to say about their friend's sudden appearance. He wouldn't have been surprised if two dark clouds of furious displeasure had suddenly appeared above their heads.

Haldar stepped out of Cemendur's house and gently closed the door behind him. There really was no reason why Bania and the captain had to be disturbed by the yelling to come.  
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**Rivendell, Elvynd decided, was turning into a madhouse.

There were quite a lot of people who claimed that that had happened already, but he had always believed in giving people (or places) the benefit of the doubt. A distressingly large percentage of the people in question were residents of aforementioned place.

But this, he was certain, was the last bit of proof he – or anybody else – had ever needed.

"He is _what_?" he asked, as close to completely incredulous as he had ever been.

The two elves in front of him looked at each other. Thalar shrugged, while Fêrdhol, who was younger and supposedly more impressionable, looked faintly scandalised. Meneldir, who was standing behind them, only looked immensely amused.

He would, too. He had a strange sense of humour, which unfortunately Elvynd couldn't even pretend not to share. He, too, found it occasionally amusing to scare random humans, especially after he had almost been killed by particularly deranged ones a few months ago. As far as he knew, the other elf didn't have a specific reason for his behaviour, but he was sure there was one. Meneldir was nothing if not a reasonable elf.

Right now, however, Isál's commander didn't look particularly reasonable. He looked like someone who knew it wouldn't be a good idea to laugh but was losing the fight fast.

"Well, sir," Thalar began, "he said that he would not do it."

"In fact," Meneldir added, a smile on his face that was somewhere between devilish and carefully detached, "the captain said, and I quote, 'tell that idiot that there is no way in the world I will do it, and he can have it in writing if he wants to'." He frowned. "Or something very similar to it."

"Thank you, Commander," Elvynd said. He found that he said it in a remarkably civil tone of voice. "You are being very helpful."

"I do try, sir."

Any second now, Elvynd thought darkly. Any second now Meneldir would start laughing, and then he would have a real, official reason to find some sort of punishment for his disrespectful behaviour. Right now, he would enjoy finding it, and it would be something the other elf would _not _like.

"And he said nothing else?" he asked, mostly to distract himself from rather dark fantasies about putting Meneldir on kitchen-scrubbing duty for the next, oh, twelve decades or so. "He can't have just told you that and thrown you out."

"No," Thalar admitted. He looked very much as if he wished he weren't here, or anywhere close to here, in fact. "In fact, he didn't."

"He also waved his arms a lot," Fêrdhol threw in, looking at him earnestly. Elvynd was reminded strongly of a confused puppy. "And _then _he threw us out."

"He ... I ... what?" As much as he tried, Elvynd still couldn't make sense of this whole thing, and Meneldir grinning in the corner didn't help in the slightest, either. "But why would he do that?"

"I couldn't speculate, sir," Thalar said, also very earnestly. Elvynd, who had always had a rather high opinion of his commander, shot the other elf a sharp look. "But if I were to do it, I..."

"Yes?" Elvynd asked. He was losing his patience, fast.

"I would say it has something to do with Lady Gaerîn's wedding dress. Sir," Thalar went on bravely. Seeing the look Elvynd shot him, he hurriedly added, "Not that I would know anything about that, of course."

"No, you wouldn't," Elvynd told him, fixing him with a glare that would have frozen a snow hare. "And the first warrior I hear gossiping about it – or about anything else connected to Lady Gaerîn – will find himself with more extra duties than he has ever imagined in his worst nightmares."

"Oh, I don't know," Meneldir said introspectively. "There was this one time I dreamed about accidentally burning down the library and Lord Erestor assigning me..."

"Meneldir," Elvynd began, with exquisite composure, "I may not be your commanding officer, but I do outrank you, so rest assured that I _can _have you assigned to a very lonely, very cold place for the next _yén _or so."

"Yes, sir," the other elf said, bowing his head. Elvynd suspected that he was less chastened than trying to hide a grin. "I am sorry, sir."

He was most definitely not, but Elvynd decided to let the matter rest. It would do him no good having to explain to Lord Elrond just why he had killed one of his commanders, no matter how justified the action might have been.

"So," he went on, in a last attempt to regain control over this conversation, "to make a long story short, you came to Captain Isál with a completely innocent request, and he waved his arms, insulted me, and then threw you out."

"Well ... yes."

"Exactly, sir."

"That would be accurate, sir."

Elvynd closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. This day was getting worse by the minute, and it _had _started with Gelydhiel's father asking him a lot of uncomfortable questions pertaining to his intentions concerning his daughter. Gelydhiel – who happened to be a distant cousin of Gaerîn – and he were ... well, what were they, exactly? He didn't know an answer to that, just as he hadn't known an answer to it when Gelydhiel's father had cornered him behind the stables. It hadn't made the discussion any easier.

His first commander had always told him that there were going to be days like this, but he had never really believed it, fool that he was.

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't go insane right here and now?" he finally asked, opening his eyes.

The other three warriors were silent for a moment.

"In order not to give him the satisfaction?" Thalar finally offered.

"Good answer," Elvynd said. "Now, please, leave me before I change my mind." The three others didn't even look at each other before they edged towards the door, looking faintly as if he was going to turn into a swarm of flesh-eating killer bees any minute now, and he added, "Thalar, could you stay for another moment, please?"

Meneldir and Fêrdhol looked at their companion with commiserative eyes, but it did not stop them from leaving the room as quickly as possible. As soon as they had closed the door behind them, Elvynd turned to his commander, an almost pleading look in his eyes.

"Is he serious about this, Thalar? Because if he is, Lord Glorfindel is going to have me for breakfast."

"I trust you are speaking figuratively, sir?"

"I am not entirely sure anymore, Thalar."

While that may have been slightly exaggerated, Elvynd knew one thing for certain: Their lord's seneschal was not going to be happy with him. Sighing, he allowed himself to drop into his chair, nearly sending a haphazard stack of reports and rosters from his desk to the floor.

"This is all Lord Erestor's fault," he complained. "He created a monster."

"And, knowing him," Thalar said wisely, "He knew it, too."

Elvynd couldn't help but agree, at least inwardly. Ever since Lord Erestor had tricked Lord Glorfindel into re-doing that inventory – or, as was the official version, had convinced him –, things had taken a turn for the worse, at least for the higher-ranking officers. After the first few days of not-so-subtle grumbling, Lord Glorfindel seemed to have been inspired by his appointed task, and had decided that if he had to suffer, his subordinates had to, as well. It was an attitude that was as evil as it was commonplace in this world, and so the captains – and through them, the commanders – had started to re-inventory anything their commanding officer could think of.

And, considering Rivendell's strategic position, namely on the outskirts of the civilised world, there were more than enough stockpiles and stores of supplies and weapons, in and around the settlement.

This, of course, was the reason why Elvynd had sent, after almost a week of tireless work, his commander to his fellow captain, with a sketched report on the general state of their northern outposts and a plea for his input and opinion. And Isál, fiend that he was, had all but laughed in his face.

Oh, he was going to pay his so-called friend back for this, Elvynd vowed silently. Even if Isál was holding him responsible for the whole debacle with Gaerîn's wedding dress, there was no reason to throw his oldest and best friend to the wolves, or, in this case, Lord Glorfindel.

Ha, Elvynd thought. Give him a wolf any time. A wolf he was allowed to kill if it attacked him. Lord Glorfindel ... well. He really thought that Lord Elrond would have strong opinions about people killing his seneschal. More than that, he would probably never even get close to the golden-haired elf lord. A lot of people had tried in the past few millennia, and unless they were demons of the deep and had whips, they hadn't succeeded. The story of how Lord Glorfindel had confronted the Witch-king and turned him to flight was still told with a substantial amount of glee in the Hall of Fire.

"I am doomed, am I not?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. "I won't have the report ready by tomorrow. I therefore won't be able to hand it over to Lord Glorfindel in time. Considering that he's only just finished re-inventorying the armouries, he will not be in the mood to deal with any excuses." He let out a deep breath and shook his head. "Is there any way this is not going to end with me floating in the Bruinen with a quill in my back?"

"Hard to say, sir," Thalar said earnestly. "You might try and take Dólion's place and deliver those messages to the Golden Wood. That might buy you some time."

"True," Elvynd admitted. "But to be serious: Did you leave the draft with Captain Isál? I hope so, because I know you have faced more terrible things than an arm-waving Captain Isál."

Thalar raised an eyebrow at him, but did not disagree. He had survived far more terrible things, though, among them Elvynd himself in a temper, and Elvynd simply couldn't imagine him being overly intimidated by Isál, yelling and arm-waving or not.

"Of course I did, sir," his commander reassured him. "I think he is going to look it over, too."

Elvynd tried not to look too hopeful. Isál was beginning to ... well, not scare him, but at least to annoy him just the tiniest bit. He hadn't really understood the whole wedding dress thing – he had most certainly never said he would organise the order and delivery of the fabric – and he was beginning to lose his patience with him, wedding or no wedding.

"Well," he said, picking up an old, broken quill he used as a bookmark. "There might be hope yet, then. Do you..."

There was a knock on the door, and both of them looked up to see Annorathil poke his head into the room, looking his typical, unruffled self. Suddenly Elvynd felt intensely jealous of him for looking so unconcerned by the madness that seemed to have enveloped Rivendell.

"Excuse me, sirs," the older warrior began, "but Lord Glorfindel would like to see you at your earliest convenience, Captain."

Elvynd, who was trying very hard not to look too much like a rabbit faced with a mongoose, did not even doubt that Lord Glorfindel had indeed phrased the "request" just like that. The golden-haired elf lord was nothing if not polite, right up to the point where he lost his temper in a spectacular fashion, and in some of his more light-hearted (read: drunk) moments, Elvynd had had the vision of him asking the balrog politely to leave before trying to chop it into pieces.

"Does he now?" he asked faintly. Annorathil smiled one of his rare smiles, one that very clearly stated that he knew exactly in how much trouble you were and was very, very happy not to be in your position.

"He does indeed, sir," Annorathil assured him. "He was quite firm in his request."

"He would be, wouldn't he?" Elvynd muttered as he tried to figure out just what he had done to be summoned by his commanding officer. The report wasn't late yet, and his little disagreement with Isál wasn't serious enough to merit intervention from above. The only reason he could think of was Gelydhiel's father accusing him of having sullied his daughter's honour or something of the like, and, Valar, wasn't that an unpleasant thought.

"Very well," he added, when Annorathil only kept _smiling _at him and Thalar looked at him a way that quite clearly spelled 'There he goes to his doom, alas, I knew him well'. "Thalar, I would like you to finish the inventory of the stables. And try not to step on too many toes; the last thing I need is the stable hands mad at me."

Thalar's look of commiseration turned into a barely-veiled glare. It looked rather like he intended to personally seek out any and all toes he could find and _stomp _on them.  
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I will take care of it, sir."

Elvynd, who knew that, no matter how excellent and loyal a commander Thalar was, he was entering dangerous territory when the other elf was beginning to attach a 'sir' to every sentence, only smiled at him blandly. A few seconds later he was standing outside of his office and half-closing the door in the vain hope that that would provide him with some cover from Thalar's dark looks. He wasn't better than Lord Glorfindel, though, and so the thought that he wasn't the only one who would spend the rest of his day (presumably) in misery cheered him up considerably.

"Lord Glorfindel is waiting for you in his office," Annorathil told him, looking even more amused now. "I am on my way to the storerooms, so..."

"Oh, yes, Annorathil, do accompany me," Elvynd said glumly as he started down the corridor. "It is always nice to have company on one's way to the gallows."

"Quite so, sir," Annorathil agreed, placidity personified.

"What is the emergency that requires your presence in the storerooms, then?" Elvynd went on, determined to distract himself as long as possible. "Has one of the cooks locked himself in?"

"Out," the other elf answered solemnly. "And, of course, the key is nowhere to be found. It is the room where the flour is kept, so unless we want to have a mutiny on our hands because the promised cherry cakes are not ready by dinnertime, I think I should go and open the door."

Elvynd couldn't help but smile. Annorathil was, as some of the older, more respectable denizens of Rivendell would say, one of the main corrupting influences of the Last Homely House. In his long life the dark-haired elf had seen – and picked – most of the locks in existence, and his skills were approaching awe-inspiring. Elvynd had seen him open even complicated locks with nothing but half a scrap of metal in under half a minute, and while such a disreputable skill caused some to frown, Elvynd had very often been very glad to have the older warrior with him.

He also was rumoured to get along with locks and locking mechanisms better than with actually living, breathing creatures, but Elvynd was willing to overlook that. For one, he had never said it himself, and besides, if it was the case, he did have a point: Locks were a lot easier to deal with than people, especially if you had a picklock and knew how to use it.

"That would be unfortunate," Elvynd said, nodding. "How have they managed to lose the key?"

"Eru only knows," Annorathil said, sighing and rolling his eyes in disapproval of any and all reckless behaviour that resulted in lost keys. "They probably baked it into one of the pastries last week."

"That would explain a lot," Elvynd said. "I thought I saw Ingvaer spit out a tooth or two."

"Ingvaer's teeth are fine," Annorathil informed him. "At least until that boy in your troop finds out about his latest 'ingenious idea'."

Ingvaer was Annorathil's nephew and the ultimate proof that some things just ran in certain families, among them ingenuity. While Annorathil was a genius when it came to locks, Ingvaer was ... well, a genius. In a way, that was. He had the strangest ways of extricating himself from uncomfortable places and situations (or, occasionally, repair and fix things), mostly with the help of a piece of string, a scrap of metal and, occasionally, some glue. No one had ever really understood how, but most of his ideas actually _worked_, against all probability and laws of nature.

"What boy in my troop?" Elvynd asked against his better judgement.

"The one he is always spending time with, sir." Annorathil could be quite unhelpful if he wanted to. "Forgive me, but I cannot recall his name."

"Fêrdhol?" Elvynd offered, after having cast his mind about for a second or two.

"That is him, sir," the other elf confirmed calmly. "And I think you don't want to know the rest of it."

"I think I don't, either," Elvynd agreed, with the firm conviction of someone pulling a blanket over their head so the monster couldn't find them. "Do you have your tools, then?" he changed the subject. "To open the door?"

'Picklocks', as he had learned some time ago, was a term an artist like Annorathil did not appreciate.

Annorathil looked at him as if he had just suggested bludgeoning the lock with a mallet until it fell apart.  
"Please, Captain," was all he said. "It is a _storeroom_."

After that, Elvynd was silent, not wishing to further insult what Annorathil probably considered professional honour. Annorathil could probably open that kind of lock with a tooth pick and one hand tied behind his back. In far less time than Elvynd would have liked, they had reached Lord Glorfindel's office, and Annorathil took his leave, still looking faintly disapproving.

"Good luck," Elvynd told him in a last attempt to stall, even though he knew that if Annorathil needed luck when faced with a storeroom lock, the end of the world might very well be at hand. "We wouldn't want to have the Great Cherry Cake Revolt on our hands."

"Indeed we would not, sir," Annorathil agreed, that hint of a smile once again on his lips. "I still remember what happened when the honey-cakes ran out."

"That turned ugly," Elvynd concurred with an a not-very-exaggerated shiver. Two companies had returned from patrol at the same time – in the middle of a deluge that had already lasted for more than a week –, and the cooks simply hadn't counted on so many starved, honey-cake-crazed warriors. The cakes had been gone within minutes, and after that things had turned ... well, decidedly un-elvish. It had been almost hobbit-y. "Well, the fate of Imladris rests in your talented hands, Annorathil."

"Again?" The dark-haired elf merely raised an eyebrow. "This is beginning to become distressingly familiar."

Elvynd looked after him until he had turned the corner, and he was still shaking his head when he was raising his hand to knock on Lord Glorfindel's door. Mad as a hatter, everybody was. Before he could knock, his superior's voice could be heard from inside the room.

"Come in already, Captain!"

Yet another thing he had never understood, Elvynd mused as he opened the door: How Lord Glorfindel always knew who stood in front of his door. It was Lord Erestor's spy network that was to blame here, he decided.

"My lord," he said as he entered the room, bowing slightly. Lord Glorfindel sat behind his disorganised-organised desk, barely looking up as he closed the door behind him. "You sent for me."

"I did," the golden-haired elf lord affirmed. "Sit down, Captain."

Elvynd looked from the pile of papers stacked on the only chair to his commanding officer and back again.  
"Uh..."

At that rather ineloquent sound the other looked up.  
"Oh, they're just some of Erestor's files. You can put them on the floor."

Elvynd hoped that he didn't look quite as horrified as he felt. Everybody – and Lord Glorfindel especially – knew what happened to people who laid hands on Lord Erestor's files.  
"My lord?"

Lord Glorfindel arched an eyebrow at him, clearly amused.  
"What is it, Elvynd? Are you afraid of our lord's esteemed chief advisor?"

Elvynd shot him a look that suggested to the other elf that he had gone insane sometime between breakfast and lunch. It was a look that the golden-haired elf seemed to receive quite frequently.  
"Of course I am, sir."

"Fair enough," Lord Glorfindel allowed. "You can put them on the table there."

Elvynd spotted a small table that was almost invisible under the load of papers covering it, and gently deposited the stack of files on top of it. The heap of parchment listed slightly to the left but seemed to hold, and with a small sigh of relief Elvynd went back and sat down.

"Before you say anything, my lord," he began, when it became clear that Lord Glorfindel wasn't about to start speaking immediately, "let me assure you that Captain Isál and I will most definitely hand in the reports tomorrow and that anything you might have heard to the contrary is..."

"Calm down, Captain," the other elf interrupted him, having pushed back the list he had been perusing and studying him with intense eyes. "I don't care what insanity Isál has concocted this time. He _is _going mad, isn't he?"

Elvynd tried to find a more flattering way to put it and finally gave up.  
"I think so, my lord. It might get better after the wedding."

"So there is hope," Lord Glorfindel said with an amused quirk of his lips. "That is good to hear."

"We captains await the day with anticipation, my lord."

"Don't we all," the blond elf muttered. Elvynd couldn't help but smile. He loved Isál, had known him for practically all his life, but right now he would gladly have lashed him to a tree and left him there until he regained his common sense.

Lord Glorfindel shrugged, clearly dismissing all thoughts of insane captains. This was Rivendell, Elvynd reasoned, so the other elf had probably got used to insane subordinates about ... oh, about three thousand years ago. And that was a conservative estimate.

"I want to ask you for a favour, Elvynd," Lord Glorfindel finally said with uncharacteristic hesitation. Elvynd thought he might have blinked. Hesitation was something he didn't exactly connect with Lord Glorfindel. "It is not an order, so I would simply consider it an act of kindness."

"What can I do for you, my lord?" Elvynd asked, trying not to let his confusion show.

"Have your company ready to move out at a moment's notice," the other elf replied promptly. He raised his hand and began to count on his fingers, "Besides the basics, rations for at least two weeks, medical supplies, entrenching tools and all the weapons you can carry. And hay for the horses, in case we don't have the time to let them graze."

Elvynd hoped he didn't look quite as wide-eyed as he felt. Rations for two weeks? Hay? _Entrenching tools_?

"My lord, I don't..." he began, but broke off. "Why would we need entrenching tools?"

That wasn't what he had really wanted to ask, but it was at the forefront of his mind. The last time he had taken entrenching tools with him on a mission, he had been a lieutenant and they had been sent to the aid of an outpost under immediate threat of being overrun by orcs. It had ended in a disaster. His commander had been killed almost immediately, and the responsibility of getting everybody out of there alive had fallen to him. He hadn't done a terribly good job of it, and what had remained of his troop and the guards of the outpost had escaped by the skin of their teeth.

"The fact that I just told you to take as many weapons as you can carry doesn't worry you, but the entrenching tools do?" Lord Glorfindel asked, amused. There was something in his eyes that didn't quite fit his amusement, though, and Elvynd realised that the older elf was in fact uncomfortable. The concept was almost as strange as him being hesitant.

"My men would be thrilled to be allowed to take as many weapons as they want," Elvynd said wryly. "The problem would arise if I tried to stop them. But yes, the tools do worry me, my lord," he admitted. "The last time I was ordered to take entrenching tools with me was several _yéni _ago. And it ended very badly."

The other elf nodded solemnly.  
"I remember. It did end badly."

"But if you and Lord Elrond deem it necessary, I don't see any problems. I will inform my commanders," Elvynd went on bravely. Yes, so he was fishing for information, but it was understandable, wasn't it? Because ... well, really, _entrenching tools_?

Now, Lord Glorfindel actually looked slightly embarrassed.  
"Well ... fact is that Lord Elrond doesn't _exactly _know about this. Yet."

Elvynd gave up any and all attempts to make sense of this.  
"I don't understand, my lord. Why would you need my patrol made ready and not tell Lord Elrond about it?"

"I am not talking about your patrol, Captain. I am talking about your entire company."

Elvynd's brain seized this moment to retreat out of his head via his ears, whimpering in confusion.  
"I am sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I don't understand. What does this mean?"

Lord Glorfindel sighed and leaned back in his armchair. The fabric of his long robe rustled as he ran his hand through his hair, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"I have a bad feeling, Elvynd," he admitted quietly, tilting his head to look Elvynd in the eye. "I might be seeing shadows where there are none, but I do not think so. Elrond has it, too, but he isn't sure what exactly it means." He paused, a hard gleam entering his eyes. "I don't particularly care what it means. I want to be prepared, and if that means packing huge bags with anything we can think of – including entrenching tools –, then I'll do it. If word reaches us that something has gone wrong, I want to have a company ready to go."

Things suddenly became a lot clearer. Elvynd might be a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them.  
"You think Estel has found trouble once more, my lord?"

"Let us just say that the chances are astronomically high, yes," the other elf said dryly. "And the twins and Prince Legolas won't have helped."

"Not necessarily, no," Elvynd agreed. "Thinking about it, you might want to consider informing Captain Isál, too. We might need two companies at the ready. The four of them..."

"Five," Lord Glorfindel interrupted him gloomily. "Don't forget Captain Celylith. Considering who his father is, it is not surprising. I know for a fact that Erestor almost strangled Lord Celythramir once or twice during negotiations, and we all know how notoriously hard it is to get him riled up enough to try something like _that_."

"The five of them, then," Elvynd admitted. "The five of them never do anything halfway."

"They don't," the elf lord agreed. "If I know anything at all, this is going to end, if not in bloodshed and thousands of men trying to kill them, then at least in complete chaos. If Elrond is worried – and, Valar, he is –, _I _am very worried. I think you are right, though. Two companies sounds like a very good idea. We might be able to minimise the damage if we prepare accordingly."

Privately, Elvynd thought that, if Lord Glorfindel was worried enough to make preparations without informing Lord Elrond, it was most likely far too late for that.

"We can try, my lord," he still said. "I will inform my commanders, and I can vouch for their silence. Shall I inform Captain Isál or would you like to do it yourself?"

"Oh, please, you do it," Lord Glorfindel hurried to say. "I have to admit that I am reluctant to immerse myself in – how to put this? – in Captain Isál's special kind of insanity."

"It does seem to be catching," Elvynd agreed.

"And spreading," the older elf added. "I..."

Before he could say more, the door opened. Elvynd briefly wondered who would enter Lord Glorfindel's office without permission or even knocking, but then Lord Erestor's head was poked into the room. That explained it, of course. There were only two people who could get away with behaviour like this, and the other one was deliberately being kept in the dark about this.

"Lord Glorfindel," he said, nodding at the older elf lord. "Captain Isál."

"My lord."

"Erestor!" The golden-haired elf exclaimed in the tone of voice of someone who has just been caught in the act. "You are late."

"Librarians are never late," the dark-haired elf corrected him. "We lack the necessary ability to be distracted."

"Ah," Lord Glorfindel said. "I see. So that incident a few days ago..."

"Doesn't count," Lord Erestor interrupted him. "There was Darwinion wine involved."

Elvynd had to concede the point, whatever it was. He, too, loved the potent, red wine, and had done a few interesting things under its influence.

"May I trouble you for some minutes of your time, my lord?" Lord Erestor went on, looking as placid as ever. He had this particular way of asking a question that only allowed for two possibilities: One, a positive answer, or two, a quick jump off one of the balconies.

"Always." Lord Glorfindel smiled, a wide, genuine smile that lit up his entire face. "The captain was just about to leave."

Elvynd wasn't only not stupid, he was also quick on the uptake.  
"I was. Good day to you, my lords."

He stepped to the side to let Lord Erestor pass, who swept past him with barely a backward glance. While he was closing the door, he heard him ask, "Did you tell him?"

"Of course I did," Lord Glorfindel retorted. "He will tell his commanders, and inform Captain Isál, too. Two companies are better than one."

Lord Erestor sighed, relief clearly audible in his voice.  
"Thank the One."

Elvynd closed the door firmly behind him, cutting off all further sounds. For a few seconds, he remained where he was, standing just outside of Lord Glorfindel's office and staring off into empty space.

Lord Erestor, who was not exactly known for public displays of emotion, was worried. Openly worried, so worried in fact that he came to Lord Glorfindel's office to press him for news. Lord Glorfindel was past worried and had entered the territory of "Let's prepare for the worst; don't forget the weapons and, yes, the entrenching tools". Lord Elrond, by extrapolation, had to be almost frantic.

This was not good. This was, in fact, not good at all, and might actually be bad enough to tear Isál out of his temporary madness. He'd better make sure that his men did indeed pack all the weapons they could carry, Elvynd decided.

Well, he thought as he walked down the corridor into the direction of his office, at least one group of people would be happy. Fêrdhol had been asking for years to be allowed to bring his mace.  
**  
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**"You are being an idiot."

"Yes, Elrohir."

"You are being an incredibly _big _idiot."

"Yes, Elladan. Oh, and you get extra points for special eloquence."

"_Cumnacár_."

Legolas wrinkled his brow.  
"That just means 'idiot' in Quenya, Elladan."

"Yes, well, you _are_," the older twin stressed. "Did I mention how _big _an idiot you are?"

"Yes, Elladan." Legolas sighed. "About ... oh, a thousand times or so?"

"Some people," Elrohir said pointedly, "need to be told things repeatedly to understand them. I am not quite sure yet if it has something to do with you being a wood-elf or not, even though I am leaning toward a positive answer."

"Oh, so this is how this is going to go?" Legolas asked, honestly intrigued. Elrohir was his father's son and his grandmother's grandson (and Lord Erestor's ex-pupil), and it was always interesting watching him in moments like these. "Cleverly pointing out that I am Silvan and then, maybe, calling me names?"

"Well," Elladan said, frowning, "we could always wave our arms a lot and yell, if you would prefer."

Legolas barely kept a smile off his face.  
"No, I think I would rather have you as calm as possible."

"Too late," Elladan said curtly. "About ... oh, two days now."

It was silent for a while after that, because, well, what could you say to that? Legolas, who knew what the twins were _not _saying, couldn't think of a single thing, mostly because he was just as paralysed by fear and panic as they were. But he had also been told how stupid he was for the past day – more or less non-stop, too –, and so he was also the tiniest bit annoyed.

"I am sorry," he said. "I am sorry for not complying with your wishes, nay, your _orders_, like a meek child. I am sorry for believing that I can decide for myself what to do or think. What a foolish assumption of me, I know."

"It isn't about that, Legolas, and you know it," Elrohir told him in his patented No-I-am-not-angry-please-relax-while-I-tear-off-your-head voice. "We are worried about you."

"I can worry about myself," Legolas informed the twin, far more heatedly than he had wanted to. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the rangers, who had surreptitiously fallen back as soon as they had left the village, were beginning to slow their horses even more. One could say a lot about rangers, but oblivious they were not. "I don't need you to do it."

"Apparently, you do," Elladan snapped back. There was a dark cloud of anger almost visibly hanging over his head, and Legolas half-expected it to be dispelled by a low-hanging branch any second now. "You should be lying in a bed somewhere, preferably somewhere safe like, oh, Rivendell. You are not fit to ride around and be attacked by orcs."

"Now you are getting ahead of yourself," Legolas said mildly. "I've been here a whole day now, and I haven't been attacked by anything or anyone yet. It has to be some kind of record for these parts."

The part of his character that seemed to have been handed down rather directly from his father to him bristled at Elladan's tone, but he forced himself to keep calm. The twins were frantic and desperately worried, and he was the most convenient target. It was understandable. But, he added inwardly, if they kept on going like this, he was going to explode in a spectacular and very messy way.

"You haven't been outside of the village yet," Elrohir reminded him before Elladan could say anything. "This is your first chance to be attacked. Wait for it."

"Thank you, Elrohir."

"Don't make this into a joke," Elladan all but hissed at his younger brother, dividing his glare between Legolas and Elrohir now. "It is not. We have been looking for them for days now, and we have found nothing. _Nothing_. The last thing we need now is having to take care of someone who should by all rights be in bed and _not moving_."

Legolas slowly let out a deep breath, forcing himself not to start yelling immediately. This was _it_.  
"Be careful what you say, Elladan. I just may be able to show you just how quickly I can still move."

Elrohir looked from Elladan to him and back again, wearing the faintly resigned expression of someone who is preparing himself for having to break up a brawl really soon.  
"No one is going to do anything, Legolas. You may be an idiot, but provoking a diplomatic incident is not going to help anybody."

In all honesty, Legolas had long ago resigned himself to the fact that their fathers knew just how harebrained their sons were and wouldn't declare a diplomatic incident even if they tried to disembowel each other with blunt kitchen knives. A small part of him was firmly convinced that they had been waiting for such an event for a long time already. The public addresses full of remorseful, resigned understanding were probably lying in a desk drawer somewhere.

"I know that," he retorted as calmly as he could. "Tell your – yes, I'm saying it – your _idiot _brother that."

"The _idiot _brother can hear you very well, you know," Elladan snapped back. "We have everything under control here. We don't need you to drop off your horse in a dead faint and break your neck."

Legolas just barely refrained from pointing out how very, very far away from 'under control' this all was.

"I am not going to fall off anything, least of all Rashwe," he said, patting his horse's neck with his un-bandaged left hand. The white horse tossed its head for a moment before it returned to its earlier pastime, namely staring evilly at Elrohir's horse. If horses could sweat like this, Legolas was sure there would have been a bead of moisture forming on the poor animal's brow. "He would never allow that. And even if, I would never break my neck. Wood-elves don't do such things."

"If he had any sense, he would," Elladan retorted, clearly refusing to be mollified. "And what about Celylith? I cannot believe that you just left him behind to fend for himself!"

The 'This is going to end in bloodshed' look on Elrohir's face intensified, and Legolas had to use most of his self-control to remain calm, or something similar to it.

"Do you wish to repeat that, Elrondion?" he asked, in that particular, dead serious tone of voice that his father used to banish people or declare wars. "Because I am convinced that I did _not _hear you correctly."

"Elladan..." That was Elrohir, who was shrewd enough to see a catastrophe when it walked up to him, tapped him on the shoulder and inquired in an interested voice what was happening. "_Gwanûr, ú-be_...."

"I will say what I wish, Elrohir," his brother informed him. His tone of voice was very much like the one Legolas had always imagined the Noldorin princes of old using, when they were informing their men that yes, a lot of people would be killed, but that a Silmaril was worth any number of lives. "How could you leave him behind, Legolas? You can't do anything for Estel, you know that as well as we do. Celylith, on the other hand, is lying barely conscious on a bed roll somewhere, among people who don't really understand or know him, and you, _his prince_, just ride off into the sunset to..."

"You want to be silent now." Legolas' voice was barely above a whisper, but it was such an icy one that even the most enraged troll would have been checked in mid-swing. "You really, _really _want to be silent now."

For a moment, no one said a word. Even Elladan's panic-driven anger was helpless against the ice-cold rage in the elf prince's words.

"Legolas..." Elrohir began, giving his two furious companions helpless looks. The wish for someone sensible – someone like Celylith, who knew just what to do and say to calm everybody down – to be here and help him stop this from descending into bloodshed was very easily visible on his face.

"How dare you," Legolas said, purposefully not looking at either of the twins and just as purposefully ignoring Elrohir's words. His voice wasn't particularly loud, but the raw, incredulous fury in it cut through the air like a whip. "How dare you use Celylith like this! You of all people should understand! To you of all people I shouldn't have to justify myself!"

Elladan glowered at him. Elrohir looked unsure, as if he didn't know what he could say that wouldn't make this any worse. Legolas didn't feel too inclined to help him, too furious to do anything but glare daggers at the two of them.

"And let me make one thing perfectly clear," he continued, clinging to the furious calmness that opposed his more violent impulses that wanted him to reach for a weapon. "You don't have anything under control here. You have been searching for days and have not found them. If there is a more perfect definition of 'not under control', I don't know what it is."

Elladan slowly cocked his head and _looked _at him, and if Legolas hadn't been so far past caring, he might have felt a short stab of fear.  
"You insult us, son of Thranduil."

Legolas could only laugh, a short, hard laugh of anger and disbelief.

"I insult you?" he repeated, incredulous. "_You _insult me, Elladan. You implied that I was stupid, and thoughtless, and _selfish_. You implied that I would leave Celylith – my father's captain, for whom I, and no one else here, am responsible –, that I would leave my friend behind in order to chase shadows like a flighty child. You implied – and still imply – that I would leave Estel to a fate far worse than death without trying to do _anything_." He paused for a moment. "If things were different, if I didn't know you as I do, I would demand satisfaction."

"And I would gladly give it to you," Elladan said, refusing to back down. Noldor were nothing if not persistent, and to get one of them to admit that he or she was wrong was almost as impossible as convincing a hobbit to go on a diet. Silvan and Sindarin Elves just might be similar sometimes, but that was entirely beside the point. "Under different circumstances, of course." He paused for a moment, the strain of the moment making the very air around them crackle, and then added, reining in his horse, "I wouldn't hurt a wounded, unarmed person. Not even an annoying wood-elf."

"Oh, please, my lord, don't make an exception for me." Legolas' voice was arctic, and it wouldn't have surprised him at all if a cold breeze had started to blow. But of course the sun was shining and it was hot and dry, and somehow that infuriated Legolas even more. The least the weather could do was accommodate his mood. "If you..."

"Stop it, both of you!" Elrohir had finally lost his patience and stopped his horse, seething. Secretly, Legolas had wondered how long it would take him. "Listen to yourselves! You are doing their work for them!"

"We are not..." Elladan began indignantly.

"Elladan, you know that I love you, but if you are not silent right now, I will clobber you over the head."

Elladan closed his mouth. So did Legolas. It was the only thing to do when Elrohir spoke to you like this. It was the vocal equivalent of a fire-drake taking a deep breath.

"I am very disappointed, in both of you," Elrohir went on. "But probably more in you, Elladan. Legolas did get hit on the head lately, after all, so he has at least _some _excuse."

Legolas blinked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elladan do the same. He had always thought that, even though they were twins, Elladan looked more like Lord Elrond. How it was possible for one of the twins to look more like his father than the other, he had never really understood, but Elladan just did. It was the little things, the mannerisms, like cocking his head or pinching the bridge of his nose when he was one step away from getting up and disemboweling someone for pure stupidity. Elrohir, however, was very much like his father in spirit: It took a long time for him to lose his temper, but when he did ... Valar. Then it was rather like watching Mount Doom erupt, and intelligent people tended to get out of the way of flowing lava.

Legolas liked to think that he was intelligent, and so wisely decided to be silent. Elladan, stupid Noldo that he was, wasn't half as clever.

"Elrohir, I really..."

Elrohir's eyes quite literally seemed to catch fire. If Legolas hadn't had stopped his horse already, he would have done so now out of pure shock. There was something truly frightening about one of Lord Elrond's sons glaring at you with those cold eyes that seemed to mirror every single bloodthirsty Noldorin prince in his family tree.

"Have you not been paying attention, Elladan?" Elrohir asked, a cold fury in his voice that Legolas was quite sure he had never heard from him before. "Estel is out there. Estel has been out there for more than two days now. And you know what? He was taken from us. We _allowed _him to be taken, and taken by orcs, no less. We lost him like we lost so many of his forefathers, like we lost _Arathorn_, and what do you do? You argue with a friend, first with Daervagor and now with him! I can honestly not remember the last time I was so _angry _with you!"

This time, Elladan did the intelligent thing and joined Legolas in chastened, contemplative silence. Behind them, the rangers had found a sudden interest in the lush, green foliage of the trees around them. All of them were more or less successfully pretending not to understand a single word of Sindarin.

"And you!" Elrohir turned on Legolas, who knew that he was probably looking like a startled rabbit but couldn't bring himself to really care, being far too surprised. "You come here, wounded, and expect us to greet you with open arms? We know what Estel did to heal you, what he risked to heal you. And you think that a few days' rest are enough and come here to throw it all away? You can hardly stand without swaying. We know it, and you know it. Do you really think that you could stop an orc if it is really bent on killing you?"

Legolas, who, in the long years before he had received his first command, had been dressed down quite a few times, knew very well how to deal with this kind of reprimand: Do nothing, say nothing, and, for Elbereth's sake, don't blink. He very carefully and deliberately stared at a point just an inch above Elrohir's shoulder and asked himself just when he had turned back into a sixty-year-old recruit and Elrohir into his drill sergeant.

"Estel is out there somewhere, and so is young Halbarad," Elrohir went on, using that particular, half-threatening, half-disappointed tone of voice that Legolas had always connected with his basic training. His spine automatically straightened another inch or so. "Eru alone knows what they have done to them by now. Eru alone knows if they are still alive. You know as well as I do that if we do not find a trail today, the chances of them being alive when we finally do find them drop precipitously. Daervagor buried his best friend yesterday, and I will be damned if I bring him back his son to bury next. And I absolutely refuse to bring Estel home in any other way than whole and healthy."

"So," he paused, fixing first Legolas and then Elladan with a _look _so dark that Legolas was impressed anew, "if either of you utters another word to each other that isn't helpful, I will personally see to it that you spend the rest of the day tied to a tree. Do you understand me?"

Legolas was quite sure that he could hear a cricket chirp. It might have been a bird, too, he was slightly too stunned to pay attention, but it didn't really matter. It was the sound of a random animal emphasising the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them.

Elladan and Legolas looked at each other, all former enmity forgotten, and simultaneously and without words decided that only complete and utter agreement would do.

"Yes, Elrohir."

"Of course, _gwanûr_."

Elrohir gave them a dark, searching look before he nodded his head.  
"Very well. I am glad to hear it."

He spurred on his horse, and Elladan sighed as he did the same. He turned back to gesture at the rangers to pick up the pace once more. When Legolas caught up with him, the older twin was staring morosely at his brother's back, who was riding a few paces ahead and was clearly refusing to acknowledge his presence, at least judging by the rigid set of his shoulders.

"He can be really scary when he wants to be, can't he?" Legolas finally asked, after a few moments of silence.

"That was nothing," Elladan said dismissively. "He is too frightened and panicked to get _really _angry."

"Oh." Legolas, who had thought that Elrohir had been quite impressively angry, smiled nervously. He added, "He is right, you know."

"Of course he is right," Elladan said curtly. "He usually is when he is using that kind of voice."

"You two have been spending far too much time in Erestor's company," Legolas accused him.

"Maybe," the twin allowed. "But I think it's genetic. Even grandmother freely admits that it might be their side of the family."

Legolas, even though he had never seen the Lady of the Golden Wood with his own eyes, had to agree. Lord Celeborn was, of course, no Noldo, but that didn't mean anything. His father wasn't, either, and, Eru be his witness, couldn't the Elvenking lose his temper in a spectacular fashion.

"I am sorry," Legolas said finally. "I shouldn't have lost control like this. And I wouldn't have come if I thought I jeopardised the safety of any of you."

"I know that," Elladan assured him. "I do. I just..."

He trailed off, and Legolas nodded ruefully.  
"I know. I understand."

"And I am sorry for bringing Celylith into all this," Elladan went on, determined. "I shouldn't have said it. He is one of your captains and your friend, and I know you would never abandon him."

"I would not," Legolas said. If he was honest, this was the one thing he had really taken personally, and the one thing he didn't know if he could forgive Elladan for just now. "He made me go. Or," he frowned, "as much as a half-unconscious person can."

"He would, wouldn't he," Elladan retorted with a faint frown. "Sometimes I think that he is frighteningly like Grandfather. In a far more subdued way, of course, but still. The underlying menace is always there."

"Well, two of his grandparents are from Lothlórien," Legolas told him. "It might be the environment."

"It might."

"Indeed."

"Legolas," Elladan went on, turning to look at him seriously, "We have found nothing over the past few days. Nothing. By rights, it should be impossible. But they are good. They are very, very good. Whoever leads them knows how to make tracks disappear."

"But orc tracks?" Legolas asked, not for the first time since he had arrived at the village. "They don't know the meaning of stealth. They wouldn't know stealth if it hit them over the head! You just can't hide the trail of that many orcs."

"Maybe not," Elladan agreed. "But if you are clever, you divide them into small groups, no more than maybe five or six, and have one of them stay behind and erase every sign of their passage."

"That would be clever," Legolas admitted. "There is one problem, though: Orcs don't _do _clever."

"These ones do," the older twin told him curtly. "We would have found a normal orc trail a long time ago, Legolas. Daervagor and the others would have found a normal orc trail a long time ago, for the eyes of the Rangers are sharp and not easily deceived. They have been specifically trained to leave no trails behind. That is why the Rangers have not found them before. That and the fact that..."

"Someone is supplying them with information," Legolas finished his sentence. His voice was barely more than a whisper, and he found that terrible rage once again rising inside of him. "Before this is over, I will find out who that is, and then I will show him just how angry _I _can become."

"You'd better get in line."

"Just the thought of staying at the camp doing nothing while Estel is out there in some orc cave ... I just couldn't bear it," Legolas said, swallowing heavily. "Even if I can't actually do anything to help him, I need to be here. I would go mad otherwise."

Elladan looked at him in a way that quite clearly suggested that being here was no protection against going mad.

"We appreciate your help, _mellon nín_," he said, in a surprisingly earnest tone of voice. "It is just ... we already lost Estel. Neither of us can bear the thought of losing you, too, _again_."

"You won't," Legolas promised him. "I have no intention of being lost. The only thing I want is find Estel. And," he added, "kill some orcs, if possible."

"Oh yes," Elladan said, brightening. "Killing orcs sounds like a very good idea. We should concentrate on that."

"First we have to find them."

"We will," Elladan assured him. "They may be clever – or maybe not quite so stupid – orcs, but they are still orcs. They cannot hide forever."

And they couldn't, both of them knew that, but they could very well hide long enough for them to get there too late. They could hide until they would find nothing more than a pair of lifeless corpses, or, worse maybe, two men so thoroughly broken that death might very well be preferable.

Legolas knew all this, and couldn't help but mutter a Dwarvish curse that condemned all orcs ever spawned to the deepest pits. The Dwarves, who had no love at all for the Orcish race, were very inventive when it came to curses, Legolas had to give them that.

Behind them, hoofbeat heralded the arrival of the leader of their ranger patrol. It was Naurdholen, the ranger who had brought the news of the first attack to the ranger camp. He and Belvathor and Torthagyl – the two rangers who had (completely voluntarily, of course) escorted him to the village – were the only members of Cemendur's troop who had survived the nightly ambush. They were rather ... focussed, one could say, but only if one was a blind idiot. They were vengeful, and Legolas would have hated to be someone they decided stood between them and the orcs who had killed their comrades.

"Excuse me, my lords," the ranger said, in the tone of voice of someone who knew very well that a few minutes ago the three of them had come rather close to strangling each other. "But the men and I were wondering if you were planning to keep to this route? Because if we do, we'll end up in Haldar's sector."

Legolas didn't really see a problem with that, but then again, he had only been here for a day. It seemed that everybody here – and he included the twins, Haldar and Daervagor – had reached a whole new level of nervousness and panic.

"And that would result in us finding ourselves with a few arrows in various body parts," Elladan said, nodding. "I will ask my brother, but..." He interrupted himself as a low, but still very audible growl could be heard from Elrohir's direction. "I think he will agree to turn north soon. We would not want to intrude on Haldar's search area."

"Very good, my lord," Naurdholen said smoothly. "If I may say so, I think that is an excellent idea. I would hate to end up like Tarcil." He sighed over-dramatically. "The lad has good eyes, but he sure didn't see that sword hilt coming."

"Sword hilt?" Legolas asked, intrigued against his will.

"Yesterday Haldar's and Hírgaer's troops ran into each other," the ranger explained. "They weren't exactly aware of the fact at first, which led to ... complications."

"It was almost a brawl," Elladan said with a certain amount of glee. "Who was the one who hit Tarcil over the head?"

"Ereneth," Naurdholen admitted with a small wince. "He feels very sorry about it."

"I am sure," Elladan said archly. Legolas, who had not been here for the confrontation between the twins and the two half-Rehír but had heard about it from several people, decided that there was definitely still some bitterness between them. "Have your men close up, Naurdholen. The captain impressed upon me the importance of staying together."

"Yes, sir."

Naurdholen fell back slightly, gesturing at his men to close up. Legolas mused that he very much doubted that Daervagor had impressed anything upon the twins. Even he, who didn't know the man well and didn't particularly care to, could see how ... changed he was. Losing his son and Cemendur had been a hard blow, but Aragorn's capture and Cemendur's death seemed to have broken the captain.

No, Legolas thought, that wasn't true. Daervagor was one of the people that quite literally could not be broken. Oh, of course, under torture he, too, would eventually cave in and tell his tormentors what he thought they wanted to hear. Everybody did, after all, sooner or later. But to break his spirit, his soul ... Legolas didn't know what it would take, and he shuddered to think about it. Daervagor was one of the men who, even in the face of certain death and doom, would still do his duty, and possibly mock his enemies until the very moment he fell.

"We will follow the road for another half-mile or so," Elladan interrupted his musings, immersed in the logistical problems of their search. "We have searched the south already, and Haldar has the east. If we turn north here and spread out slightly, we should be able to cover ... what?"

His question was understandable, since Elrohir had suddenly stopped his horse in the middle of the road. His head was turned to the left, turned north, and he stared into the brush next to the road with frightening intensity. The twin's hair gleamed in the light, the sun lending it red highlights, but then Elrohir turned back to them, his eyes huge and unreadable in his pale face.

The two of them reined in their horses, too. For a moment, Legolas did not understand what was going on. At first he thought that Elrohir's gloomy prediction had come true, that there were orcs near and they were surrounded. But there was no sense of menace in the air and no sounds to be heard expect the hoofbeat of the rangers' horses as they hurried to reach them, and he knew that no enemy was near. Pushing aside the pain and weakness that was still clamouring for his attention, he strained his ears, but a deep, peaceful silence was all there was to hear.

He was about to ask Elrohir why he had stopped, but then he saw it. He did not understand how he could not have seen it sooner, but later he blamed the after-effects of his head injury and his overall poor physical condition.

It was totally unexpected. It was perfect. It was the most glorious thing Legolas had seen in several days.

It was a trail.

**TBC...  
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_Dúnedenith (pl. of dúnadaneth) (Sindarin) - 'Women of the West', (female) rangers  
faer (S.) - spirit, soul  
yén (pl.: yéni) (Quenya) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
cumnacár (Q.) - 'empty-head', *idiot  
Gwanûr, ú-be... (S.) - Brother, don't sa... (or something like it. Elladan interrupted him in the middle of the 'say' *g*)  
gwanûr (S.) - (twin) brother  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend_

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**_**Yeah, well. Angst? Who, me? I don't even know what that word means... Anyway, Annorathil's little guest appearance is for ... Gods, I have forgotten who asked me for it. Still, it's for someone! *bright smile* So, Aragorn's still in trouble, but The Ingenious And Timely Rescue**** can finally happen! Or can it? *evil cackle* We'll see in the next chapter, in which there will also be more torture, blood, and mayhem. Probably in that order, too. So, stay tuned! I know that I don't deserve reviews, but they'd make me happy when I'm once again spending a whole night in the library ... and since I have the keys, I am NOT kidding. My life is sad, I know. *g*  
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**Additional A/N:**

**Sincerest apologies to Ilaaris, Tink, XoLikeWoahxO, Asdfjkl, Firefly-Maj and Christine, for not including them in the group review replies. If you wish to be included the next time, remember to leave a valid email address (in the correct space, because otherwise FF-net eats it) or to log in before reviewing. Thank you, and sorry again for any inconvenience this may cause.**


	26. Rules of Engagement

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Well, have a look at this! I managed to post after "only" two months! If this is indeed the beginning of a trend, I shall will soon be back at the once-a-month schedule. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, but that would be a huge step in the right direction. I mean, I don't know how likely that is, seeing how I have only a few more months to write my thesis and it's then excavation time again, but we'll see. Let's hope I finish the bulk of the story before I once again leave the country. That would be really great. *doubtful smile* Oh, and thanks for your well wishes. The oral exam went well, and I am quite pleased with myself. *g***

**I am, btw, glad that you liked Elvynd's little appearance. He's not having a lot of fun in Rivendell at the moment, let me tell you that. I can, of course, make no statements about the identity of the bad guy(-s). That would spoil the fun, and we really can't have that, can we? Let's just say that most will be revealed in about ... approximately four or five chapters. That's an estimate, of course, and knowing me (and my characters' proclivity for rambling on and on and **_**on**_**), it might be a bit longer, but not much. I have already failed to end this before Chapter 25, so I aim not to surpass the 30 by all that much. We'll see how well that goes. *g***

**All righty, here's the next bit of insanity, namely Chapter 26 (wow, time really does fly when you're having fun, huh?). I think I managed to keep to last chapter's prediction of torture, blood and mayhem. Well, maybe more planning, torture, blood and Insane Rangers****©. The mayhem will happen next chapter, so that means yes, this is a kind of cliffy. But not really, don't worry. Well, that's what I think anyway. *g***

**As always, enjoy and review, please!**

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**Chapter 26

This was insupportable, Elladan thought. Because he had about no patience left and was very much in the mood to share his misery with his surroundings, he decided to let the others know.

"This is insupportable," he said.

Next to him, Legolas shot him a look that very clearly said that he was contemplating renewing their earlier argument and taking it to the next level, too, namely to that of physical violence.

"I am so glad you're sharing."

Elladan decided not to honour the comment with a reply. It wasn't that he didn't want to argue with Legolas – riling the wood-elf was one of the few true pleasures he allowed himself on a regular basis – but the last thing Elrohir had told him before leaving had been something along the lines of '_And if you don't do your best to get along with Legolas, I will _hurt _you, Elbereth be my witness. Do you understand me, Elladan_?'

Legolas, it seemed, shared his opinion, doubtlessly out of the same reason as him, namely that he would _burst _if he couldn't yell at someone. The Silvan elf, however, either hadn't been listening when Elrohir had laid down the law, or hadn't taken him seriously.

Wood-elves could be incredibly stupid sometimes.

"Is there anything else you would like to add, Elladan?" Legolas went on, eyeing him darkly. "Like, maybe, pointing out that I am an idiot? You have only told me in Sindarin, Westron and Quenya. I am sure you know enough Dwarvish to manage it."

For a moment, Elladan was truly tempted to tell the other elf what an _unbelievable _idiot he was in the Silvan dialect of the Wood-elves of Mirkwood. He didn't speak it perfectly, mostly because it was almost impossible to get a wood-elf to teach a Noldo, but he definitely knew enough to insult someone. It would be a shallow pleasure, but it would show Legolas that he most certainly knew more languages than just Sindarin, Quenya, Westron and (all right, fragmentary) Khûzdul.

But no, that would not do. Firstly, they were surrounded by rangers who all had a far better command of the Grey-elven tongue than they let on, and it would not do to present them with even more reasons why Elves in general and they in particular were just one step away from gibbering madness. Secondly, he really didn't want to vent his frustration and anger on an (more or less) innocent person. And thirdly ... well, there was still Elrohir's threat to consider. His little brother could be downright frightening when properly provoked, even though that was something he would never tell him.

"I am not fighting with you, Legolas," was all he said in the end.

Predictably enough, Legolas looked disappointed before the look of mixed annoyance and simmering anger reasserted itself.

"Aren't you?"

Elladan sighed inwardly. How typical of his dear, stupid friend to make those few words into a challenge.

"No, I am not," he confirmed, very deliberately continuing what he was doing, namely stroke his horse's neck. If he stopped now, he would start pacing, and that wouldn't do at all. "Don't bother trying to make me angry. It is not going to work."

Legolas looked at him with unreadable eyes, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows. After a few moments of silent scrutiny he exhaled, turned around and sat back down on his log.

"It isn't, is it?" he asked rhetorically.

"No," Elladan agreed. "Don't misunderstand me, though. I would like to argue with you. Right now, there aren't many things I want, but yelling at someone or, better yet, killing someone is right at the top of my list."

"Then why don't you?" Legolas asked, cocking his head slightly to the side, in that particular manner that made him look like a two-week-old puppy. Elladan just knew that he was doing it on purpose. "Yell at me, I mean. Killing me might be a little bit over the top."

"Because Elrohir told me not to," Elladan told him curtly. "And I know better than to provoke him when he is in _that _kind of mood. There are less painful ways of committing suicide." He shot the wood-elf a sidelong glance, one hand still resting on his horse's mane. "Unlike you, I know better."

"Unlike me you know better?" Legolas repeated, apparently greatly offended. "_I _wasn't the one who couldn't hold his silence earlier today and almost got both of us shrivelled into tiny black lumps of coal."

Elladan gave him a flat stare.  
"You do realise that Elrohir is not a fire-drake, don't you?"

"Someone should tell _him _that."

Elladan frowned. Legolas actually had a point there.  
"All I am saying," he said, trying to get this conversation back under control, "is that this is unfair."

"Life's unfair. Deal with it or become a minstrel."

Elladan gritted his teeth. He should have known two things: One, that Legolas wouldn't give up so easily, and two, that he could be very, very annoying when he was frantic, worried and in pain.

Under different circumstances, the fact that Legolas _was _frantic, worried and in pain would have been enough to mellow him, but right now, he was dangerously close to not caring. It was, of course, mostly because he, too, was frantic and worried.

He wasn't in pain yet, but considering their luck, that would be only a matter of time.

"Let me rephrase that," he tried again. He found that he was displaying commendable patience and willingness to follow his twin's ... oh, all right, his twin's orders. "It is unfair that Elrohir, Daervagor and the others are out there gallivanting around the forest while I am stuck here with you, your demon-horse and almost a full company of bloodthirsty rangers." He frowned. "I do approve of their attitude, of course."

Behind them, someone cleared his throat. Elladan gave his horse a last caress before he turned around, his face darkening as he recognised Haldar. Elrohir and he had made their peace with the ranger – or maybe their temporary truce, to be completely honest –, but that didn't mean that they _liked _each other. The situation had not improved with Estel's capture. Rationally they knew that, even though it had been rangerswho had lost their human brother, they (and, by extension, Haldar) bore no guilt, but rationality had taken an inspired leap out of a window very early into this latest catastrophe.

"I would hardly call it gallivanting, my lord," the ranger said mildly.

Of course he wouldn't, Elladan thought scathingly. But no matter what, he was a fair elf, and he knew better than to actually insult one of the people he knew would give their own lives to save Estel's.

"It was a figure of speech."

Haldar looked slightly pained, as if he was fully aware of the fact that Elladan would have liked nothing better than to find a reason to yell at him (he did, after all, understand Sindarin perfectly). Legolas, who seemed to have donned his 'Behold, I am the Voice of Reason and Will Solve All Your Problems' persona once more, chose this moment to speak up, either because he found his non-argument with Elladan boring or because he, too, could see trouble brewing on the horizon.

"They are scouting," the wood-elf said, in a mild tone of voice that was belied by the slight tremor in his voice. Elladan wasn't sure if it was born of anger or fear or maybe both. "They could be getting chewed on by some wargs right now."

"You are telling _me_?" Elladan asked, incredulous. "I know that! And since I know my idiotic twin very well, I know that the chances of that happening are actually very high indeed!"

"Well," Legolas began, clearly wanting to remain polite, "it seems that he's had a spot of bad luck over the past few years..."

"A _spot _of bad luck over the _past few _years?" Elladan repeated. "That is a rather nice way of putting it."

"Elladan..."

Elladan shot the other elf a whithering look. He was in no mood to be polite or friendly.  
"Over the past few years Elrohir has been shot with almost every kind of projectile you can think of, almost executed more than once, eaten by wargs, tortured by madmen, has fallen off horses, has been trapped in cave-ins, hit over the head, stabbed, concussed..."

"All right, all right," Legolas said quickly. He could clearly see the list going on and on and _on_ (he, too, had been present for the 'past few years') and decided to stop this while he wasn't bleeding out of his ears yet. Haldar, it seemed, had been seized by similar feelings, and was nodding along fervently. "I understand what you mean."

"They will return soon, my lords," Haldar finally said, when it became apparent that neither of the elves was willing to say anything. "The ... place where those creatures are hiding..."

"The lair." Legolas' voice was completely serious.

"The lair, then," Haldar admitted. There was a tiny quiver at the side of his mouth that, under different circumstances, would have been a smile. "We think we know where they are, and it isn't further than a couple of miles away. They should be back soon."

"We do know where they are," Elladan said, even though he knew that that was optimism at best and dangerous blindness at worst. "We do."

But they didn't, of course, not really. As soon as they had discovered the tracks, they had had only one thing on their minds: Follow the trail, find Estel and Halbarad, and kill any and all orcs they could get their hands on. That in itself hadn't been surprising – Elladan was very aware of the fact that he, at least, had been thinking of nothing else for the past few days –, but what had come as a real surprise was the way Naurdholen had put his foot down and had refused to let them do anything of the kind.

Elladan hadn't even registered the ranger's presence before, not really. He knew that he was one of the three rangers who had survived the ambush in the village that had ultimately taken Daervagor's life, and that he was the one who had brought the news to the camp. And that, ultimately, was the whole extent of his knowledge of him. The man was respectful and slightly awed by them, like most rangers, and calmly effective, also like most rangers.

He was also Haldar's means of ensuring they didn't do anything reckless, and for that, as it turned out, Naurdholen was just the right person. He had remained polite and respectful, but he had also made it very clear that he did not intend to let them go anywhere, by clinging to their horses' legs if necessary. It had been annoying and infuriating (mostly because Naurdholen quite simply hadn't been intimidated by anything they said or did), but the man's calm refusal to obey their orders had been enough to bring them back to their senses.

Haldar had done well in choosing him, indeed.

In the end they had agreed to remain where they were until messengers could be sent to the village. Naurdholen had remained behind with most of his men, once more proving that he was no idiot. Elladan honestly couldn't say that he would have remained true to his promise to wait for reinforcements if he had been left to his own devices.

The wait had almost killed him, Elladan was honest enough to admit it. Elrohir had remained outwardly calm, talking to Legolas in low Quenya – a conversation that Elladan hadn't even tried to overhear, preferring to pace up and down the road. The mere knowledge that Estel was somewhere at the end of that trail, that all he had to do was to mount his horse and follow it, was enough to make him almost mad with worry and restlessness. He had been only one step away from breaking his word in a very spectacular manner when hoofbeat heralded the arrival of the reinforcements, and Daervagor arrived with what seemed like every single warrior they had brought.

Some of the most nerve-racking hours of Elladan's life had followed, while they, Haldar and Daervagor had separated the men into groups and had chosen the van- and rearguard. There had been some mild disagreements (read, yelling) over the plan of action (Legolas and he preferred the 'ride in and kill everyone we can find' variety), but in the end they had agreed on something that all of them could live with, mostly because they were all very aware of one thing: That, if they didn't hurry up and got it together now, they would still be too late.

So they _had _got it together and followed the trail. It had been slow going, especially after they had reached a stream and the ground on the far bank sloped upwards and became ever more difficult to survey. In the end, they had moved in two groups, one led by Elrohir and him and one led by Legolas, Hírgaer and Tarcil, to minimise the danger of losing the trail completely. The two rangers were the most keen-eyed of the humans, and even Elladan, who was willing to acknowledge the fact that he had been in no mood to feel charitable towards anybody, had been forced to admit that they had performed extraordinarily. But still, if not for the fact that Elrohir, Legolas and he had been there to lead the rangers and everybody's sheer unwillingness to lose this one last chance they had, he was quite sure that they would have lost the trail again.

But they hadn't, and it had led them here, to a a small glade up a hillside that provided them with an excellent temporary camp. It was easily defensible, possessing only two exits, and anybody making their way through the thick undergrowth would be detected almost immediately. There were several tall trees that provided them with perches for the sentinels, and so Elladan didn't feel particularly at risk here, even though night had fallen quickly and completely an hour or so ago.

What agitated him was the fact that he had been left behind when his idiot brother had conspired with Daervagor to leave them and scout ahead. The idea itself had merit, Elladan had to admit that, especially since Daervagor and Haldar had looked at each other some time ago and had both agreed that they thought they knew where the tracks led. All doubts had been erased in the moment they had reached the small glade they were occupying right now, for there was only one place to go to from here: Down. And down meant down the hill, and towards the foot of the adjoining one, an especially rocky, steep elevation that Elladan could see even from here.

And at said foot were several caves.

They were not unknown to the _Dúnedain_, and not to Elrohir and him either. They weren't used for storage or as shelters like some others in this part of the Angle, but all of them were aware of their existence. The only reason they hadn't been searched yet was the fact that no one – not even Haldar who liked to play the role of the pessimist during their strategical meetings – had thought that the orcs would be able to travel this far without having to take shelter from the sun.

They had been wrong, had been wrong because they had arrogantly underestimated their opponents, and that more than anything else was searing Elladan's consciousness like red-hot coals. It was their fault that Estel had been missing for more than three days now, that they hadn't found him sooner. It was their fault. It was _his _fault.

All this didn't change the fact that Elrohir and Daervagor had taken Hírgaer and Tarcil – the two rangers least likely to stumble in the dark and fall flat on their faces – and had left to see what they could find out and if they were even right or if this was yet another dead end. Elladan had nothing against the idea of scouting ahead. It was the sensible and intelligent thing to do and could probably have been considered standard military procedure in such a situation. What galled him was that his twin had informed him, steely-eyed and very, very seriously, that he would remain behind. Elrohir had chosen two rangers above him in a matter that was so very, very important, and it hurt.

Objectively, Elladan knew that his brother had been right. He did have a temper, he was aware of that, and right now he was in such a state of fear, anger and apprehension that it was likely that even two mortals would be more helpful than him. Especially, he added, if one of the mortals was Hírgaer, who seemed almost elven in his ability to read trails and move in the dark. Elladan could still remember the ranger's words to Faedond, the ranger who had attacked and insulted Ereneth and him on the day they had received word of the ambush: "_I could sneak up behind you and cut your throat, any time, anywhere. You would never hear a thing, and you damned well __**know it**__._"

After seeing him today, Elladan did not doubt it for a second, and it explained why Faedond had, for just one second, looked openly apprehensive.

But objectivity had taken aforementioned swan dive out of the window earlier, together with rationality. And Elladan wanted nothing more than to move, to do something, _anything_ that would help him forget the violent, seething emotions swirling inside of him that threatened to choke him.

"We _hope _we know where they are, my lord," Haldar interrupted his musings. "I really hate to say this, but we cannot by any means be sure. There aren't any other possibilities that come to mind right now, but that doesn't mean that they don't exist. I am sorry."

"Can you doubt it?" Legolas asked, taking the words right out of Elladan's mouth.

Haldar shook his head, his mouth twisting into a dark, sad smile.  
"I can doubt a lot of things, my lord."

"But can you doubt this?" Legolas insisted, looking for all the world like a child looking for confirmation that the big bad monsters were in fact not hiding under his bed. Elladan would have liked to comfort him in some way, but he didn't know how, and so he remained where he was. "You and Daervagor, you seemed so sure..."

The blond elf trailed off, shaking his head. He was clearly unhappy that he had revealed his fears like this, in front of Haldar and who knew how many other rangers. Haldar looked at him with something very close to pity, but he was too intelligent and knew Legolas too well to show it openly. Legolas was King Thranduil's son, no matter how afraid and panicky he might be at the moment, and he would not suffer public displays of pity well.

"We are reasonably sure, my lord," Haldar amended. "Sure enough to halt the company and send out scouts. The caves would make the most sense, really. They are quite big and have only a few entrances. The main one is half-overgrown with ivy, granting further concealment, and it is still more or less within a reasonable distance from the village. More importantly, we cannot think of any other possibility close-by that would serve as well as this one. This has to be it."

"But you are still not sure." Legolas' words were spoken calmly and completely without emotion.

"No, my lord," Haldar admitted. "I am sure they will be back soon, and then we will have our answer."

Legolas did the only thing he could, namely glare at Haldar. He had accepted Elrohir's judgement – _'No, you are not coming, and that is final. Now sit down before you fall over and that demon you call a horse decides to eat you' – _more gracefully than Elladan, but he hadn't been happy about being forced to stay behind due to his injuries. The two of them weren't the only unhappy ones, though; Ereneth had glared at his brother as if it was his fault that he had been denied permission to accompany the scouts. Naurdholen and his fellow survivors of the ambush had looked close to mutinous, and Lhanton, too, had looked decidedly unhappy. Elladan thought that the latter, at least, shouldn't be complaining, for it was a miracle of no small proportions that he had been allowed to accompany them at all, injured as he was. But he had pleaded with Daervagor, and Elladan supposed that it was the stark _need _to be a part of Aragorn's rescue that was so easily visible in Lhanton's eyes that had swayed the older ranger.

It was entirely possible. Daervagor, he was happy to say, had regained some of his spirits. The man who had led his warriors to their aid today was a far cry removed from the man they had left back at the village. He wasn't the Daervagor from before Cemendur's death, but he was not the empty-eyed, emotionless shell who had watched them ride out of the gate this morning.

"You are right, of course," Elladan finally said, when Legolas only kept glaring at the ranger who was beginning to show the first signs of cracking under the stress. "It is just..."

"I understand, my lord," Haldar said, when he trailed off. "I wasn't too ... happy ... myself to be left behind."

That, on the other hand, had been a good choice on Daervagor's part. A less able leader might have had problems keeping all of them under control, in one place and relatively quiet, even though 'they' were a company of highly-disciplined rangers and two slightly rebellious elves. Haldar, on the other hand, had no problems at all keeping everything under control, no matter what he thought about having to stay behind.

"What I find truly frustrating," Legolas said, apparently having realised that glaring at Haldar was, one, unfair, and two, unproductive, "is the way they have managed to conceal their trail. If we hadn't found it in the beginning, we would never have paid close enough attention to detect it. I think I will take great pleasure in killing the orc responsible."

"It has made our task much harder, that much is sure," Elladan agreed.

"It is against their nature to be able to do such things," Legolas declared sagely.

Their mutual declarations of what an orc should and should not be able to do was interrupted by two rangers hurrying towards them. Even in the darkness Elladan could see the excitement on their faces, and steeled himself for something bad. Knowing their kind of luck, it was only to be expected.

"Haldar," Ereneth greeted his superior, reaching the three of them first. Lhanton reached them a second later, panting slightly and favouring his left side. "My lords," Ereneth added, almost as an afterthought, giving Elladan a baleful glare.

Elladan almost rolled his eyes. So Ereneth blamed them, or at least him as an extension of his twin, for having to remain behind and letting his brother go off alone. Well, bad for him, he thought almost savagely. He had been left behind as well, and he was in no mood to take any undeserved blame. He had enough of the justified kind already.

Besides, no matter what Elrohir said, he was sure that the tall ranger was at least partly responsible for what had happened to Aragorn. He had stopped glaring at him and his brother at some point, but that didn't mean that he had forgotten. And Lhanton ... well. Elladan growled inwardly and directed a dark glare at the ranger. He was no fool and objectively knew that Lhanton had really stood no chance against a determined Estel, but right now that didn't mean anything.

"Yes?" Haldar asked, looking slightly apprehensive. It seemed that not only Elladan had come to expect havoc lurking around every corner.

"There are riders approaching," Ereneth reported. "Belvathor saw them as well."

"Is it them?" That was Legolas, desperately trying not to let his apprehension show.

"We don't know, my lord," Ereneth replied. "But it seems very likely. Orcs would not use horses, and we think them to number four or five. It must be them."

"It _should_ be them," Lhanton amended. "On the other hand, it could be particularly sneaky orcs who use horses as decoys."

Haldar shot him a warning look that was almost immediately followed by threatening glares from Elladan and Legolas. Lhanton fell silent, chastised, but Ereneth ignored them with his typical, single-minded resolve.

"In which case they will most likely only be the vanguard, which will eventually lead to them slaughtering all of us." He grinned, momentarily seeming to forget that his brother had left him behind to go on a dangerous mission alone. "In any case, tonight should be interesting."

Haldar redirected his glare from Lhanton to Ereneth, and Legolas exhaled loudly in obvious annoyance.  
"Are Rangers born fatalistic or do you have to practice to achieve this level of skill?"

"Always assuming the worst saves you from many an unpleasant surprise," Ereneth told him, looking at him and Elladan with solemn grey-green eyes. They were as changeable as his brother's, Elladan thought absently, even though Hírgaer's tended to be green more than anything else. "Besides, the worst does happen quite frequently to us, or so it would seem."

Haldar, who Elladan increasingly thought to be quite a wise man, chose this moment to change the subject. Elladan wondered if he could sense the mounting frustration in Legolas and realised that there was only one outlet for it, namely physical violence.

"I assume you made sure that none of the sentinels puts a few arrows in their chests?" the ranger asked, arching an eyebrow at Ereneth. "Such mistakes happen, after all."

The young half-Rohír had the good grace to look embarrassed.  
"I didn't mean to hit Tarcil quite that hard. It was his own fault for not announcing his presence beforehand. I thought he was an orc."

"I hope you didn't tell him that," Lhanton commented softly.

"Of course I did," Ereneth said with his typical, disarming (and unfortunately also very undiplomatic) frankness. "Why wouldn't I?"

Lhanton opened and closed his mouth wordlessly. Haldar shook his head at the both of them, but did not allow himself to be sidetracked.  
"Did you inform the rest of the sentinels, then?"

"Yes, Haldar," Ereneth said patiently. "Belvathor and I decided that, especially considering our future careers, shooting our Captain and one of Lord Elrond's sons would be unwise. And shooting my brother would be unwise no matter what."

There was a hard look in his eyes that Elladan knew very well, having sported it many times in the past. It was not lost on Haldar either, who looked at the younger ranger searchingly.

"Have there been any further problems, lad?"

Ereneth might be many things, among them stubborn and slightly hot-headed, but a telltale he was not. Elladan knew that there had indeed been 'problems', namely instances in which Hírgaer or Ereneth or both had seen it necessary to knock some heads together to emphasise their disapproval of being called traitors. He doubted that said problems – born of fear, anger and growing panic – had ceased all of the sudden, but he also knew that Ereneth wouldn't say a word to a de facto superior.

"No problems," the tall ranger said curtly. "None at all. We are one happy family, are we not?"

Ereneth, Elladan noted, could also be quite sarcastic.

"Aren't we just," Haldar said in the same tone of voice. "Come then, before one of our _happy _brethren decides that one of riders is an orc and puts an arrow through his head. Not that I don't trust Naurdholen to emphasise the importance of not doing just that." He sketched a bow at Elladan and Legolas before he turned to go. "My lords. I will be back momentarily."

"Unless, of course, one of them _is _an orc, in which case I think putting an arrow through his head is the right course of action," Ereneth said almost cheerfully as he followed Haldar, after a quick nod at the two elves. "It would be quite advantageous to make sure beforehand, though."

"Ereneth?"

"Yes, Haldar?"

"Just don't talk until your brother gets back, will you?"

Elladan, who recognised Ereneth's levity as the worry and fear that it really was, looked after him and Haldar, wondering if it was compatible with his pride to follow the two of them (most likely not), when he realised that Lhanton had remained behind. It was proof that the ranger was brave, or maybe slightly suicidal. Elladan briefly wondered if Lhanton was maybe confusing him with Elrohir, who had always tried to be calmer and more controlled in his presence.

"Lord Elladan," the man began, proving his speculation wrong, "I wish to ask your forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" Elladan repeated brusquely. He knew that he wasn't making it any easier for the dúnadan, but, Manwë be his witness, he was in no mood to be accommodating.

Lhanton raised his head and looked straight at him, the healing cut on his face standing out in stark contrast against his pale skin. There was something dark and tormented in his eyes that reached out to Elladan, a dark despair that he could relate to only too well.

"I left him," Lhanton said, sounding so completely and utterly miserable that Elladan's anger diminished the slightest bit. "I know that you can never forgive me for that, neither you nor your brother nor you, my lord," he added, inclining his head at a stony-faced Legolas, "but I want you to know how very, very sorry I am."

Elladan couldn't bring himself to say anything for long moments, a myriad of thoughts swirling in his head. In the end he cleared his throat and shook his head.  
"You were injured. Someone had to take Serothlain back to the village."

It was a statement and not an excuse, and all of them knew it.

"I still had full use of my right arm," Lhanton countered, lowering his eyes again. "I didn't _have _to go anywhere."

"Don't be a fool, ranger," Legolas said almost brutally, but the harshness of his tone was belied by the sincere understanding in his eyes. "If you would have stayed, all three of you would have been captured. You and Serothlain might even have been killed. There was nothing you could have done differently."

"There is a lot I could have done differently." Lhanton shook his head and gave a small, bitter laugh. "Valar, I could have done _everything _differently."

"No, you couldn't have," Legolas disagreed, his voice softening the tiniest bit. "Not if you wanted your comrade to live and notify your people of the threat they were facing. I am a wood-elf of Mirkwood, Lhanton. I know everything there is about necessity and sacrificing those you hold dear. You did nothing wrong."

"Maybe I didn't," Lhanton admitted, swallowing heavily. He seemed to be quite unaware of the fact that he was holding his injured left shoulder that was covered with a heavy bandage which was visible even through his clothing. "But I did nothing right. I left Strider to the orcs. I left a comrade to the enemy, a friend even. I will never forgive myself for that."

"You will have your chance at redemption tonight, dúnadan," Elladan interjected, doing his best to keep his voice steady. He still blamed Lhanton, blamed him for losing his little brother and the Hope of all of Arda, but he blamed himself far, far more. Besides, he understood the dark, guilty despair that hung over the man like a thick cloud. He had been in his position too many times, and it was somewhere no one deserved to be, least of all one of Aragorn's people who had really done all he could while weak and injured and terrified. "Help us get him back, help us get both of them back, and you will have our forgiveness."

And he would have it, too, because Elladan didn't care about anything at all, least of all who was guilty of what, if they only got Aragorn back safe and sound.

"You have my word, my lord," Lhanton assured him, the darkness in his eyes lessening somewhat. "I will do what I can to save them. But no matter what happens, I wanted you to know how sorry I am, and how much I wish things were different. How much I wish that I done things differently."

Elladan and Legolas only nodded at him, and Lhanton took this as his cue to leave. Elladan watched him go, idly wondering what had happened to the cheerful young man who had conned Celylith into a bet he very much doubted the wood-elf would win. The darkening of the world was seldom so clearly visible as in the mortals it touched and turned into darker, hardened and disillusioned versions of themselves. A sudden wave of sadness swept over him, a sadness for Aragorn and all of Middle-earth, for their failure to protect their little brother as they had promised their father and for his uncle's people who were fading into history amidst pain and blood and death. He couldn't breathe, the darkness and hopelessness pressing in on him on all sides, and he was saved only by Legolas' hand that suddenly gripped his shoulder, lending him strength and comfort.

"We will find him, Elladan, and he will be all right," Legolas said in a low voice, the cadence of his words suggesting that he had been repeating the words to himself like a mantra or a prayer. "If you believe in nothing else, believe in this."

"I know," Elladan said, swallowing and wiping angrily at his inexplicably moist eyes. "I know. Don't worry about me, _mellon nín_. I will be fine."

"But of course you will be," Legolas agreed in that particular tone of voice of his that suggested that you were a particularly poor liar. "Before this night is over we will have him back, and will have our revenge as well. Trust in this."

"I do," Elladan said, and found that suddenly, he could almost believe his words. "Valar, but I do."

Legolas nodded wordlessly. He would have been invisible in the profound darkness if not for the faint light that his body emitted. They were still standing like that when the sound of hoofbeat grew louder and louder until finally riders appeared between the tall trees, first one, then three and finally four. Elladan would never forget the sight of Elrohir and his three companions appearing between the oak trees accompanied by the silence of the other rangers and the quiet whispering of the tees.

Elladan could see his twin's face because of the light that his body emitted, but he wouldn't even have needed that small source of illumination. He knew Elrohir as well as he knew himself, maybe even better, and he could read him in the dark as easily as in plain daylight.

Elrohir dismounted, allowing a ranger to take his horse from him, and when he turned around, his eyes searching for the two of them, Elladan saw everything he needed, everything he had wished for, reflected in his twin's grey eyes. There was still fear there, and desperate worry and a wrath that secretly frightened him a little, but there was something else now. There was certainty, satisfaction and anticipation, and a wild hope that made his heart skip a beat.

Elladan took a deep breath and closed his eyes, offering the One a fervent prayer of thanks. And since he was a Noldo, maybe even more so than his twin, there was a dark smile on his lips when he opened his eyes again, because he and his had been terribly wronged, and vengeance was finally at hand.  
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**Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Fifty-five ... no, wait. There was another number before fifty-five. Fifty ... fifty-four, yes, that was it. At least he thought so. It sounded about right.

A sudden stab of pain went through him, reigniting the agony thrumming through his body, and his concentration was torn asunder. In all fairness, it didn't terribly matter whether there were fifty-four, fifty-five or fifty-five _hundred_ cracks in the wall opposite him, but it was the only way he could think of in which to distract himself from the situation he had managed to find himself in.

It wasn't easy to find yourself stuck in a dark cave as the captive of a horde of orcs who wanted nothing more than torture you to death and eat you, hopefully in that order. Not everybody could do that. It took real _skill_.

He still didn't really understand how it had happened, especially considering that he wasn't the one who found himself in such situations frequently. If he had had to name a particular ranger of the company, he would have chosen Ereneth as the most likely candidate to manage this particular feat, or maybe Ciryon. But wait, Ciryon was dead, and Ereneth might be, too. He wasn't sure what Ereneth's death would do to Hírgaer, but he suspected that the older ranger would manage to get himself killed in a very spectacular fashion while trying to avenge his brother. Knowing the half-Rohír, he would take a whole lot of orcs with him, too.

The crack of the whip interrupted his musings, and a second later liquid fire seared down his left side. The blow had hit where about ten others had connected with his flesh already, and the pain was bad enough to make the world go white and then black. His vision was reduced to a narrow, dark tunnel, and sounds seemed to fall away behind him until there was nothing but the fast beating of his heart. When he regained his senses, it was to the view of Skagrosh's face, yellowish eyes narrowed in something that looked like pure pleasure.

Halbarad was too weak and in too much pain to react outwardly, something for which he thanked Eru Ilúvatar with all his heart, but inwardly he cringed. A part of him was ashamed of the pure terror that the orc could awake inside of him with a single look, but a far larger part of him had ceased caring a long time ago.

"You're not passin' out, are you?" the orc asking, cocking his head to the side and studying him like a particularly interesting insect. "'Cause that would be a shame."

Halbarad didn't trust himself to control his voice, and so he didn't say anything. He wouldn't have known what to say anyway. Most versions of "You are going to die", "You are doomed, you just don't know it yet" and "I hope you fall over and die" had lost their appeal about two days ago.

"Ah, ah, ah," Skagrosh scolded and yanked on his hair (just when had he taken a hold of his hair, Halbarad wondered), and only now Halbarad noticed that his eyes had begun to slide closed. "None of that, now. Don't be boring."

Boring, Halbarad thought fuzzily. Had that ... creature really just called him boring? He ... he would make him pay for that, somehow.

"I wonder," Skagrosh began before he interrupted himself to yank on his hair again. Halbarad had just enough presence of mind left to wonder about the fact that it didn't hurt at all. "I really wonder if I have to keep both of you alive. Thinkin' about it, I rather doubt it."

He wasn't the only one. Halbarad, too, had wondered about it, and in the darkness of his cell he had decided that the orcs probably _didn't _need the two of them. They had killed Cemendur, but that hadn't been an accident. It had been done by the Master himself of whom everyone here, and that did include Skagrosh, lived in fear, and that meant that there should only be one of them here at the moment. The Master didn't expect anything else, and that, of course, meant that Skagrosh could kill one of them – probably.

It was that one small word on which their lives depended right now: _Probably_. Because Skagrosh didn't know for sure, and he wasn't prepared to risk being wrong. Halbarad could even emphasise. He could imagine what would happen to the orc if the Master returned and found that one of his two prisoners had been killed, in defiance of his (unspoken) orders.

When it became clear that Halbarad wasn't going to say anything, Skagrosh released his head with a growl of displeasure. Halbarad couldn't muster the strength to keep his head up, and so he just hung in his bonds, for the moment completely unable to straighten up. Skagrosh looked at him before he started to circle him like a wolf would circle its prey. Halbarad could do nothing but hang there and pray that Skagrosh either tired of him or he lost consciousness, whichever came first.

"I wonder what the Master wants you for, _tark_," the orc remarked, as he came to stand in front of him once more. "Don't see nothin' special about you meself. Barely any meat on yer bones."

This time, Halbarad did shudder openly. He really didn't like that particular comment, and he was quite sure that it had been meant very literal.

"I mean, sure, you're a pretty one," Skagrosh went on, continuing to circle him, "but not as pretty as your little friend."

Halbarad wondered for a fuzzy half-second if he should feel offended that he wasn't considered as 'pretty' as Strider. He decided against it, because, really, there weren't many things that were worse than being called 'pretty' by an orc, especially if he had you tied up and dangling from the ceiling.

"So, I wonder," Skagrosh said, reaching out with a clawed hand and grasping Halbarad's chin. "What makes you so special? What do you know? What does the Master wish to hear from you?"

Halbarad, who saw his first chance to put his finger where it really hurt, swallowed painfully.  
"You'd really ... have ... ask him," he told his captor.

Because that was the problem. Skagrosh couldn't ask the Master, because he hadn't come since the night he had killed Cemendur. That had been five days ago now, and there had been no sign of him since then. Halbarad had been here long enough now to know that Skagrosh was nervous. Something had gone wrong, the Master had not come when he had promised he would, and now the horde was stranded in hostile territory without orders or a way out. Skagrosh was still keeping the others in line, but Halbarad knew enough about Orcs to be aware of the fact that that state of affairs couldn't last indefinitely. Sooner or later, the tall orc would lose the ability or the will to control the horde, and they would be free to do to them whatever they wanted.

Both Estel and he hoped to be dead by then.

Unsurprisingly enough, Skagrosh was not happy about his answer. The hand gripping his chin tightened, leaving yet more gashes on his jaw where the claws burrowed into his skin, and Skagrosh brought his head even closer, close enough for Halbarad to smell his foetid breath.

"I'll do that, _tark_," he told Halbarad in an almost friendly tone of voice. "I'll do that, and right after it I'll rip out your heart and _eat _it."

Halbarad looked at the orc with wide eyes. He might have heard several variations of the threat over the past few days, but this time, he was actually terrified, because Skagrosh was the one person here who could make good on his threat. Renewed pain shot through him as the orc wrenched his head to the side, looking at his pulsing jugular with eyes that were several nuances too greedy for Halbarad's taste, and he closed his eyes as a last resort until Skagrosh let go of him once more.

"You know how this is gonna end, don't you, boy?" Skagrosh asked, conversationally, as he ambled back towards the far side of the cave. A heap of instruments and tools, most of them blood-stained and rusty, lay there, and Halbarad resolutely refused to look at them. "There's only one way. You're gonna die here, you and your pretty little friend, and no one's gonna find you."

Halbarad would have liked to tell the orc that he was wrong, that the others – that his father – would find them, but he couldn't muster the sincerity. The apprehensive, gut-churning fear had turned into a kind of black, hopeless despair, even more so since Skagrosh had decided that he had restrained himself long enough now and that he was going to play with both of his 'toys' now. That had been about two days ago – or maybe three or four, who could tell in this perpetual darkness –, and a large part of Halbarad was already wishing for a quick death.

He didn't _want _to die, but he preferred any kind of death to having to betray their people to their most hated enemy. And if Halbarad was one thing, it was realistic, and he knew that he would break. Most men did, after all, and he was not the man Commander Cemendur was ... had been. But he was a ranger and he was his father's son, and if it was his fate to die here, then he would endeavour to die with the same honour as Cemendur.

There had been no honour in Cemendur's death, a small voice whispered inside of him, no honour and no dignity, especially towards the end, but he silenced it with a ferocity that surprised himself. It he broke down now, that would be the end of it, and he was not yet prepared to leave Estel alone, no matter how appealing death might be at the moment.

"Nothing to say to that, eh?" Skagrosh, Halbarad thought darkly, could sometimes be annoyingly astute for an orc. "That's 'cause it's true."

Halbarad still didn't say anything, which seemed to annoy the orc quite a lot. He just didn't see what purpose it could possibly serve to rile his captors further, and besides, he just _knew _that his voice would shake if he opened his mouth again. It didn't matter that both Skagrosh and he knew how very, very afraid he really was; he would be damned if he delivered the proof of it to the orc on a silver platter.

"You're really very boring," the orc declared, in a pouting tone of voice that, under different circumstances would have made Halbarad laugh. It was the exact tone of voice his youngest sister had always used to declare him evil and mean for not allowing her to play in the forest with him and his friends. "I think we've got to do something about that, don't you?"

Halbarad braced himself, expecting the orc to turn around with some new, terrible tool in his hands. Until now, Skagrosh had concentrated his 'interrogations' on Estel and left him more or less alone, relatively speaking. Only in the last few days, when it became clear that he would kill the other ranger in a matter of days if he kept going like this, had the orc started to have his little 'chats', as he called them, with Halbarad, too. A part of him was glad of the respite, and it made him feel sick with disgust and self-loathing.

But Skagrosh's hands were empty when he turned to face him. There was a grin on his face, though, a grin that Halbarad knew very well by now and that never, ever, meant anything good. Skagrosh gleefully turned to the side, addressing one of the orcs loitering by the entrance of the cave. The rest of the horde was not allowed to enter the cave or participate in the 'interrogations', which usually meant that they were a sullen, brooding mass blocking the entrance – because, no matter whether they could have fun themselves or not, no orc ever missed any kind of torture. The thus addressed orc, however, grinned and nodded and pushed its way through the rest of the spectators, a couple of the others following closely behind, and dread so heavy and choking that his heart stopped for half a second went through the young ranger.

"What ... what are you...?" His voice didn't tremble or shake, even though it sounded terribly weak, but Halbarad thought that some concessions had to be made.

"Ah, I just thought we should have some more company," the orc drawled, looking like the proverbial cat that had eaten the equally proverbial bird, or maybe like an orc who had finally decided that self-restraint was highly overrated. "And I've been wantin' to introduce you to a nice little friend of mine, who's been with me for a long, long time."

Halbarad's addled mind couldn't get much further than 'This is going to end very, very badly' before the orcs blocking the entrance shifted, allowing two burly orcs to push their way through. It was the smell that tipped him off first. It was something he had smelt only once, when he had been still a child. It had been a day he had almost died, and also the only day he had ever seen his father cry, of course only after he had snatched him and his younger sister from the jaws of certain death. It had been tears of utter and complete shock and terror, and Halbarad absently wondered if his father would cry like that when the others finally found their bodies.

A growl brought him back to an increasingly unpleasant reality, and Halbarad dreamily lifted his head as best as he could and looked at the warg the two orcs led towards Skagrosh. It was bigger than your average wolf, but not by much, maybe four feet high or a little more. It was long, though, at least seven feet, with longish, oily fur whose colour ranged somewhere between grey and brown.

The animal opened its very toothy, thoroughly impressive jaws and snarled at him as it was being led past him, and that was the moment when Halbarad decided that he had been wrong. The right time to die had been exactly five minutes ago.

The two handlers talked to Skagrosh for a few moments, both of them holding onto the thick, rusty chain that was attached to the warg's spiked collar. The warg, however, seemed not very interested in trying to attack the bound ranger. It only stood there, yellow eyes fixed unwaveringly on the human. Halbarad couldn't help but look back, right into the gleaming orbs that were full of voracious, intense evilness. This animal wasn't stupid; it knew exactly that it couldn't get at him and wouldn't waste any energy straining against the chain.

Skagrosh grinned at the other two orcs, who bobbed their heads in agreement, before he turned back to his prisoner. Halbarad, who still couldn't entirely avert his eyes from the embodiment of his childhood nightmares, decided that he could have lived happily ever after without ever having seen that particular kind of smile on an orc's face.

"So," the orc captain began while the other two led the warg slightly further away to a safer distance, "there she is. What d'ya think?"

Ah, Halbarad thought distantly. So the warg was female; that was the reason for its relatively small size. Skagrosh seemed to wait for a reply for a moment or two before he shook his head, sighing sadly.

"You're really, really boring, boy. But since I'm so nice an' all," Halbarad almost laughed at that, "I'm gonna tell you about her anyway. She's been with me a long time, and has always been a good friend. Not like these maggots here," he added, jerking his head into the direction of the other orcs, "they'd kill me in a heartbeat if they thought they could get away with it."

The two handlers looked decidedly innocent at that, but didn't try to protest. Halbarad could relate to that, of course. He would have _loved _to kill Skagrosh himself.

"But Ghashbúrz here," Skagrosh meandered over to the warg and patted its large head, something which the creature seemed to bear with surprising equanimity, "is something else. Something _special_. She's loyal, and she'd do anything I ask. Anything."

The large, wolf-like creature leaned into the rough caress, making Halbarad half-expect it to start purring any second now. It wouldn't have surprised him at this point, which either said a lot about Skagrosh and his minions in general or about his own psyche. Probably the latter.

"More than that," the orc captain went on, conversationally, "she's clever, ya know?" He looked at Halbarad as if he was really expecting an answer. "She knows exactly how far she can go. She can be real _delicate_."

Halbarad didn't like where this was going. His back was a single, pulsing source of agony and he was cold, colder than the cool air of the cave actually merited. Halbarad knew the signs of shock as well as the next warrior, but somehow he couldn't really bring himself to care. After all, what did it matter now?

"She will have to be tonight," Skagrosh commented wisely. "Because now, boy," the orc cocked his head to the side, grinning, "we're finally gonna have some fun."

For a second, Halbarad's addled brain couldn't quite follow, but then he laboriously turned his head and tried to focus his increasingly blurry eyes on what Skagrosh was looking at. He did it against his better judgement, and was immediately proven correct when his eyes focussed on two orcs dragging an unresisting figure through the jeering crowd and towards them. His heart literally seemed to freeze inside his chest, making him feel even colder, and he swallowed convulsively. Oh, Elbereth, no.

"Here we are..." Skagrosh said softly, but interrupted himself when the orcs came to a stop in front of him. His face became that particular kind of calm that Halbarad had already learned was a very bad sign. "What have ya done to him? I've told ya not to mess with my toys, haven't I?"

The orc holding onto Estel's left upper arm exchanged a look with the orc holding onto Estel's right upper arm. The young ranger's head hung down onto his chest, dark, blood-matted hair obscuring his features, but apparently Skagrosh was expecting him to be in better shape, or at least conscious. Why he would do such a thing, Halbarad did not know. He very much thought that Skagrosh should possess intimate knowledge of Estel's state of health, seeing as it had been him who had been torturing him for days.

"Nuthin', sir," Orc Number One protested. "Found him like that in his cell, we did."

"And then you kicked him around a bit, didn't you, _snaga_?" Skagrosh snarled back, striding over to the two orcs and staring at them with evilly glinting eyes. "I've told you not to touch the two of them. I've told you to keep your filthy paws to yerselves!"

"But, sir..." Orc Number Two began, only to receive a ringing slap for his troubles.

Skagrosh began to yell at the two of them in Black Speech, Strider hanging between the two chastised orcs, forgotten. Halbarad tuned the three of them out, by now very accustomed to orcs yelling at each other and bashing each other's heads in, and stared at Estel. He hadn't seen him with his own eyes since he had been thrown into this nightmare; they had only been able to communicate through the fissure in the wall. The last time he had seen him had been seemingly an age ago, back in the camp when everything had still been all right and everybody had still been alive.

Back then, he had looked very different, and a whole lot more like himself.

He had known that Estel would be in bad shape, no matter how much the other ranger had tried to downplay his injuries. But after the first two days, his voice had got weaker and less convincing, and his attention had been disrupted and wandering when they had managed to speak to each other. Rationally, he knew that he had to be injured badly, especially knowing Skagrosh's opinions about what was fun and what wasn't. And even while Estel didn't talk about what was being done to him, Skagrosh had no such problems. He was clearly an orc who believed in _sharing_.

But to see him like this ... well. That was something else.

For one thing, it put Halbarad's own injuries into rather harsh perspective, because Estel looked horrible, and he didn't have to see his face for that. His shirt had disappeared at some point over the past days, exposing a torso that looked as if someone had used it as a punching bag. Well, that was only true if that someone had been wielding clubs and really sharp knives. Most of the raw patches littering the other ranger's upper body looked bad, crusted and dirty. They were hard to see anyway, almost hidden by all the bruises, cuts and contusions. Halbarad was no healer, and didn't know more about the healing arts than your basic first aid that every sensible warrior learned sooner rather than later, but what he did know was that this kind of injury was most likely very bad. What he also knew was that the wound to his right upper arm was _definitely_ bad, especially considering that it was obviously infected.

Skagrosh had finished yelling at the other two orcs, gave both of them a last punch to emphasise the point he had supposedly just made, and turned around. Halbarad hurriedly tore his eyes away from the broken body of his fellow ranger and did his best to appear as if he didn't care at all that their captors had finally begun to get clever and and use them against each other.

"So," the orc said, rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation. It was something that accentuated the sharp claws at his fingertips, and something that no one in their right minds would ever want to see an orc do. "Let's wake your pretty little friend."

He gestured at the two orcs, who stepped closer with identical grins, their earlier animosity apparently forgotten. Halbarad half-expected them to chain the other ranger to something, but apparently Skagrosh was only prepared to deal with one prisoner at a time. Or maybe he had forgotten to bring his spare pair of chains.

Skagrosh's method of waking someone seemed to consist of grabbing their hair and jerking their heads up. In Estel's case, it seemed to work, because out of all the bruises and contusions there came a moan that sounded far weaker than Estel would have been comfortable with had he been fully aware of his surroundings.

"Look who's decided to join us!" Skagrosh said, all but beaming at Strider as soon as he opened his eyes. The other ranger's eyes were clouded and unfocussed, and it seemed to take him a while to realise where he was. "Sleeping during a meeting is ... rude, that's what it is, boy. I'm disappointed."

Estel blinked, trying to clear his throat. Halbarad wasn't even sure if the other ranger was aware of his presence. He doubted it. Yesterday – or maybe earlier today, it was hard to say in here – the older man had been almost incapable of speaking, even though Halbarad had felt that he had tried his best not to let him notice.

The other ranger shook his head softly, as if attempting to concentrate. His eyes wandered over Halbarad, showing no reaction to his presence at all, before they came to rest on the two orcs holding the warg's chain. The warg chose this moment to cock its head to the side and bare its teeth at them, and something changed in Strider's eyes. It was as if a shutter had come down, blanking out anything he might have really felt, darkening them to the colour of wet slate. A moment later he looked up at Skagrosh who was watching him closely, and there was nothing at all in his eyes when he spoke up, the hint of a mocking grin on his face.

"And here I ... try to model my life ... after your ideals, _orch_."

Strangely enough, Skagrosh only grinned, patted Strider's cheek in a strangely gentle manner and turned around to Halbarad.  
"See, boy? This is what I call fun! A little conversation ain't so much to ask for, no?"

This wasn't conversation, Halbarad thought. This was an attempt at suicide. Not that he was surprised, mind you. He had been talking to Lord Elrond's sons, after all.

"So," the orc went on, turning back to the other ranger. "Pay attention now, pretty boy."

Estel hadn't even tried to get his feet under himself and was hanging between his two guards. Halbarad didn't know the other ranger all that well yet, but he knew one thing: He was proud, and wouldn't let his enemies see him like this if he had any other choice. Maybe he was a little too proud for his own good, even by Dúnedain standards. It was no wonder, of course, with him having been raised by the Elves and all. But still, in situations like these, it could be a bad thing, especially if you didn't possess elven regenerative powers.

"I've decided," Skagrosh went on, returning his attention to the half-conscious ranger, "to make this a little bit more interesting. 'Cause, boy, one thing I can tell you: Your little friend here is awfully _boring_."

Estel's mouth quivered in a way that might have been a wry smile.  
"He's got ... other qualities."

The orc seemed to frown for a second, as if he was truly considering this.  
"Well ... screams nicely, he does, but then again, so do you. So, I ain't sure if I should count that."

"Generous."

"Ain't I just?" Skagrosh agreed congenially. "So, we're having a little problem here, don't we? I really wanna have something to tell the Master when he comes back. And you two ... well. Boring, both of you."

"We're sorry to disappoint."

If he could, Halbarad would have clapped his hand over his mouth. He hadn't wanted to say that out loud. He hadn't even said it in his head. It had just ... come out, just like that. It had to be Estel's fault; his 'kill me already, I dare you' attitude must be rubbing off on him.

"Well, will you look at that?" the orc captain drawled after a moment, after having got over his shock of hearing Halbarad speak. "He's a good influence on you. Makes it almost fun, don't it?"

"Almost," Halbarad agreed, surprising himself with how calm his voice sounded.

Skagrosh wasn't paying him any attention. He was conversing with the other orcs in Black Speech, the sound of which making Halbarad flinch, and suddenly several things seemed to happen at once. The two orcs holding Strider between them stepped closer, eliciting a barely muffled moan from their captive. At the same time the orcs holding onto the chain attached to the warg's collar took two careful steps closer, giving it some additional slack. The warg got to its paws in a fluid move, arching its back in an oddly and very disconcertingly catlike manner, and ambled the two steps closer. It seemed to know exactly how far it could go without tugging at the chain attached to its collar – which, in this case, meant that it stopped about three feet from Strider and maybe five from Halbarad.

Halbarad quickly glanced at the older ranger before he fixed his gaze once more on the very fascinating cracks in the wall opposite him, knowing very well that Skagrosh was watching the both of them with rapacious glee. There was still no discernible emotion on Strider's face, but there was a hard set to his bruised, bloodied mouth that Halbarad had seen too many times on his father. It was usually just before he had done something he knew would end badly for him, like argue with his wife.

And how right Estel was, Halbarad thought, feeling how his mouth became dry. This was going to end very, very badly for both of them.

"So, my little rats," Skagrosh finally said, grinning so broadly that it should have dislodged his jaw, "you get one last chance, since I'm not unreasonable."

"To do what?" Strider asked between gritted teeth. "There is ... nothing ... we can tell you, because you ... you don't know what you want ... want to hear."

"Oh, I wanna hear plenty, boy," the orc replied, the grin on his face even widening. "And I know I wanna hear you scream again. After all, you do it so prettily."

This time, there was a hot flash of anger on Estel's face before he shut it away behind that invisible, impenetrable wall of his.  
"_Na i nathath Udûn, glamog._"

If there was one thing Halbarad had learned over the past few days, it was that it was not a good idea to throw Sindarin insults at orcs, and especially not at Skagrosh. It didn't matter that they didn't understand what you said; even orcs figured out that you were not complimenting them if you spoke in _that _tone of voice. Not that he didn't agree with the sentiment – Valar, he did – but ... well. Attempts at suicide and all that.

Unsurprisingly enough, Skagrosh was not pleased with being insulted in Elvish. Without taking his eyes off Strider, he reached out and grabbed the warg's chain from the orcs holding it. A moment later he stepped forward, bringing the warg with him. He was still grinning at Strider when he spoke a single word in Black Speech. The animal bounded forward with an almost happy-sounding growl, and then all there seemed to be was movement and blood and Estel's sharp cry of pain.

It seemed to be going on forever, but Halbarad knew that it probably didn't last much longer than ten or fifteen seconds. A very detached part of him was aware that his chained wrists had started bleeding again from where he had rubbed them raw in his attempt to escape his restrains, but he didn't feel any pain, not even from his lacerated back. All he could concentrate on was the sight of Estel twisting in pain, the two guards barely able to hold him between them, and the warg _bloody well trying to rip his leg off_.

"Stop it! _Stop!!_" For a moment, Halbarad wondered who was yelling the desperate words and how he could possibly hear them over the sound of the other ranger's agony, but then he realised that it was himself. "Stop it! You are going to kill him! Please, stop!!"

Skagrosh ignored him. He wasn't even looking at him; his yellow eyes fixed unwaveringly on the sight of his captive squirming in helpless agony as if it was the most exquisite thing he had laid eyes on in a long time. After an eternity, the orc barked another command and jerked on the chain. The warg twisted its head a last time, the powerful jaws clamping down even harder. Strider's scream rose once more before it ended in a strangled groan as the warg released its hold. The creature returned meekly to its master's side, idly licking at the blood covering its jowls.

All of the sudden, sounds and sensations rushed back as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been emptied over his head, and Halbarad had to suck in a deep breath as the jeering of the orcs and the soft growls of the warg washed over him like a tidal wave. His body hurt as if he had been hit with a large, blunt stick for a prolonged amount of time – which, considering how things were going, was probably only a matter of time –, and he realised that he had been twisting in his chains with such force that he must have almost dislocated his shoulders.

"You see?" Skagrosh's voice came to him through a thick cloud of horror and quickly fading disbelief (_they hadn't just really done that, had they?_), and he slowly raised his eyes and looked up. The orc rested his hand on the warg's large head, rubbing the coarse fur with obvious affection. "Ghashbúrz here's an artist."

Halbarad couldn't possibly have agreed, even if he hadn't felt so terribly sick to his stomach. Estel was hanging bonelessly in his captors' hands, his head resting limply on his chest. If not for the strands of long dark hair moving once in a while, Halbarad would have thought him dead. The other ranger's body was twisted to the side in the vestiges of lingering pain, granting a very disconcerting view of what had once been a perfectly healthy leg.

Well, it still was for the most part, if one disregarded the bloody mess that was Estel's thigh. Halbarad was most definitely not a healer, but he knew a bad wound when he saw it. Blood was dripping to the floor of the cave in a steady stream from deep, ragged gouges that the warg's teeth had left behind, staining the ground and Strider's dark breeches. Suddenly, all the fear and panic that was pounding against Halbarad's ribs from the inside disappeared, leaving nothing but raw fury behind.

"If this wound is not bound properly in the next few minutes, he is going to die." He stared at the orc with more calm than he would have thought possible two minutes ago. "Is that what you want? That he dies? That he dies and your master returns to find his dead body, which, oh, what a surprise, cannot tell him _anything _anymore? If that is what you want, then, well, you're on the right track!"

Skagrosh looked at him, radiating satisfaction which only dimmed slightly at Halbarad's acerbic words. After a moment he handed the warg's chain to one of the orcs who had stepped closer at the sight of bloodshed and wandered over to where the orcs were holding Estel's body upright. He reached out and lifted his head up by the hair, exposing a face that was so pale that the numerous bruises looked even darker, almost as if they had been painted on. There was a trickle of blood running down his chin where Estel had bitten his lip in a futile attempt not to scream. His eyes were open but glassy, and Halbarad seriously doubted that he could really see anything.

"So pretty," the orc said softly, almost as if he was speaking to himself. "That spark I told you about, boy?" he added, cocking his head to look his captive in the eye. "Now you look at me and tell me that it's still there, still untouched, and see if I believe it."

Estel didn't say anything, and if there was anything to read in his eyes, Halbarad couldn't see it. After a moment, the orc released his grip on his captive's hair and took half a step back, watching closely how the ranger fought to keep his head up. In the end, gravity and shock won out and his chin sunk back towards his chest, prompting a chorus of comments and jeers from the surrounding orcs.

Skagrosh looked at the half-conscious ranger for a second longer before he turned around, eyes alight with something that Halbarad absolutely refused to contemplate, no matter how furious he was at the moment. And that was really very, _very _furious.

"And here we have the little one," the orc went on, stepping closer to him. "Not quite as ... sparkly, but still close enough. And so ... angry, ain't we?"

"Why?" Halbarad asked, the fury giving him the strength and courage to get the words out. "Why do this? There is nothing he or I can tell you, even if we wanted to, because you don't know what to ask! You are killing him! If you don't see to that wound soon, you _will _have killed him!"

"I ain't killin' him," the orc said, shaking his head. "Not yet. And," he went on, reaching out with a long, sharp-clawed finger to tap Halbarad on the chest, "as I said, the last time the Master was here, there was only one of you. And guess what?" he asked, leaning closer and looking at Halbarad with his yellow, gleaming eyes, "I think there's gonna be just one of you when he comes back."

The orc's proximity and the mere fact of being touched by him was enough to make the fury inside of him waver and retreat, but Halbarad clung to it with every bit of strength he still possessed.

"Your master will not come," he announced, putting every last bit of his dying hope into his voice. He looked at Estel's broken, bleeding body and felt the anger reignite. "And you know why, _orch_? Because by now our people will have found him and strung him up on a tree like the murderous coward that he is."

Halbarad barely felt the blow that whipped his head to the side. He was beginning to see why Estel kept antagonising his captors; it was quite satisfying in a weird, suicidal way.

"They won't stop looking for you," he went on, raising his head again and watching with some amount of satisfaction how the orc captain's face began to darken with fury. "And sooner or later, they _will _find you. You can't hope to hide from a company of Rangers, not forever. And without that master of yours? You don't stand a chance at all. They will find you, and they will kill you. All of you, and that little pet of yours, too."

This time, the blow really did hurt. It apparently took Halbarad too long to raise his head on his own, and so Skagrosh reached out and yanked his head up, his clawed hand buried in his captive's dark hair. In the background, the warg growled low in its throat.

"D'ya want to feel her teeth as well, _tark_?" the orc hissed, pulling harder. With his arms chained over his head, Halbarad couldn't compensate and couldn't help but grimace in pain. "She can eat you bit by bit, _bite by bite_. D'ya want to ask your little friend over there how it felt when she tore into him? D'ya want to watch how she continues with him? 'Cause I can arrange that. I _will _arrange that. And even if they find us, even if that little fantasy of yours comes true, you'll both be long dead and rottin' in the ground by the time they do."

Halbarad bit his lip against the tearing pain in his scalp and did the last thing his captor probably expected: He nodded earnestly, his mouth trembling as he tried not to let the pain show on his face.

"Most likely true," he agreed, bringing out the words through gritted teeth. "But you know what?" he asked, looking at the orc out of the corner of his eye and giving him a dark smile. "I cannot seem to care anymore."

Skagrosh stared at him for a while, narrowed eyes seemingly boring into his very core. Then he released him and whirled around, stalking back towards the orc holding the warg's chain. He snatched it out of the other's grasp with a growl, to the obvious delight of the huge, wolf-like creature which immediately got to its feet, a huge, toothy grin on its hideous face.

Halbarad tore his eyes away from the creature and the blood still covering its fangs and closed them, exhaling softly. The orc was right: They would die here, both of them. No matter what, no matter if Skagrosh had someone bind Estel's wound, the other ranger would die, and soon. And if he himself was really lucky, he would soon follow him.

He felt Skagrosh walk past him, a low growl betraying the passage of that terrible pet of his, and he suddenly found himself doubting that very, very much indeed.  
**  
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**He liked Elrohir. He really, really did. It could even be said that he loved him, like the annoying, overprotective brother that he'd never had. But if he didn't start seeing some sense soon, he would conk him on the head and then, maybe, cut him into little pieces.

Well, not necessarily. He would most likely leave him in front of a troll cave, who would then proceed to cut him into little pieces themselves. That would be far less messy for him.

"I will say this only once more," he said, struggling to keep his voice calm and under control. "I know that you, being a Noldo, might have a problem understanding me, but try to pay attention. I am an adult and quite a capable warrior. Furthermore, I am the crown prince of Mirkwood and in no sense, shape or way at all your subject or that of your father. You will _not _tell me what to do."

"I am not trying to tell you what to do," Elrohir said, in that maddeningly calm tone of voice that never failed to infuriate him. "I am trying to tell you what _not _to do."

Legolas gave him a dark look, the kind he usually reserved for orcs, Mirkwood's master healer Hithrawyn, and Celylith when he was once again trying to sneak in an 'adorable' orc cub and thought he wouldn't notice.

"Mincing words does not become you, Elrohir," he said, aspiring to the same kind of calmness that Elrohir radiated. "I am going to come with you, and I don't care what you have to say about it."

"And the fact that you sound about twenty-five years old and as if you are telling your nanny that you will stay up till after midnight, no matter what she says, is a complete coincidence, isn't it?"

Legolas slowly turned his head and redirected his earlier dark look, this time enriching it with the definite threat of immediate violence. Somehow, he had allowed himself the illusion that he wouldn't have to fight both of the twins on this and that at least Elladan would be sympathetic. It had been clearly a misconception, born from the fact that earlier Elladan, too, had been made to stay behind.

Apparently, their having-to-stay-behind experience had only made Elladan more willing to please his brother, coward that he was.

"Let me try to summarise this," Legolas said, still holding onto that preternatural calmness that he couldn't quite explain to himself. "You, who are no superiors of mine, want to order me to stay behind while you go into an orc-infested cave with a group of people of not even a fraction of my age, not to mention experience. You want me to desert you while you go into danger and darkness, like a weak-minded coward. You want me to stay out here while you try to rescue my friend." He glared at the two of them. "You know what? You can go to Angband for all I care. I am coming with you, and, short of tying me to a tree (which, frankly, I would _not _recommend), there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop me."

The twins exchanged a look. Behind them, the rangers were gathered in two groups, which were both receiving instructions from a tense-looking Haldar and an even tenser-looking Daervagor. Among them, Legolas recognised Naurdholen, the thorn in their side who had prevented them from following the trail immediately, and Ereneth, who stood out by his height alone. They, like their comrades, looked serious and very attentive, eyes dark and unreadable in the dying moonlight.

"All right," Elrohir finally said, conceding the point for both of them, "you can come with us. But at least two rangers will always be at your side. No, excuse me, I must correct myself: Two rangers will be _glued _to your side. And I will give them the order to hit you over the head with something very hard, and I _mean _very hard, if you so much as look as if you want to try and lose them."

"I hadn't thought you could actually order them to do anything," Legolas said thoughtfully.

"Most humans will do almost anything if you look at them long enough, you know that as well as I do. Even the Dúnedain." Legolas found it strangely comforting that he wasn't the only one who thought it acceptable to use that particular strategy. "And besides, I am sure that Daervagor won't mind."

Legolas had to admit that the twin most likely did have a point there. Daervagor wasn't really fazed by much anymore, and right now he was ... focussed. Very focussed. Legolas seriously doubted that he would notice if a bunch of rabid ferret had been busy gnawing off one of his legs, as long as they didn't interfere with him planning the assault.

"Most likely not," he agreed. He looked at the twins, still suspicious of some kind of ploy. "Why was that so easy?"

The two of them looked at each other again. Sometimes, Legolas truly wondered what it had to be like to be able to communicate with each other so easily and without words.  
"Because you are not going to listen to us anyway," Elladan answered. "It would be pointless to argue any longer."

Legolas arched an eyebrow.  
"When has that ever stopped you?"

"I cede the point," Elladan said with surprising affability. "In addition to being pointless, it would also be time-consuming. And time," he added, "is the one thing we don't have."

He was right, of course. Legolas agreed with him completely. But it was very, very disconcerting to see the twins so reasonable, and to have them make so much ... sense.

"I ... all right," he finally said, blinking. "So you will not try to stop me?"

"You are your father's son, my friend," Elrohir told him with a small, wry smile. "I doubt that there is anything that could stop you now, short of a blow to the head. Which, incidentally, as I might add, is exactly..."

"...what my two friendly guards will do should I try to slip away. Yes, Elrohir. I heard you the first time."

"I simply wish to make sure of that," the younger twin told him. "We are not doing this out of malice, Legolas. We are concerned."

Legolas followed his friend's gaze to his right hand which was visible where he had pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. The linen bandage that covered the still healing burns on his hand and forearm had been pristine and crisply white once, but that had been this morning. Since then he had ridden countless miles and followed a carefully concealed orc trail, not to mention almost got into a fist fight with Elladan, all of which had resulted in a muddy grey colour. Suddenly self-conscious, he rolled down his sleeve and raised his chin, looking at Elrohir mutinously.

"I am ambidextrous."

A real smile spread over Elladan's face at that. It was short-lived, but it was still the most genuine sign of merriment he had seen on either of the twins' faces in several days.

"I know you are," the older twin told him. "But it's not only your hand. There is still your side to consider, and your shoulder. Your overall condition is ... poor, let's leave it at that."

Legolas sighed, realising that this was far more effective than simply yelling at him or accusing him of idiocy (besides, Elladan had already done that). When the twins looked at you like that, with their large, wounded grey eyes, they looked far too much like Aragorn when he was trying to win you over with his puppy dog stares. And that, Legolas thought, was really nothing he was prepared to contemplate right now.

"I know that," he admitted, running his left hand through his hair. "I am no idiot." He pretended not to hear a snort that could have come from either or both of the twins. "I promise you that I will be careful, and that, as soon as this is over, I will swallow whatever vile potion you concoct in that magic cauldron of yours."

Elrohir shot his brother a vaguely amused look.  
"We like to call it a pot or a kettle. The word 'cauldron' suggests ... sorcery."

"Not to mention the word 'magic'," Elladan added.

"Witchcraft, magic, medicine ... it's simply a matter of labelling," Legolas waved their words aside. "But I do promise. There is nothing else I can offer you."

The twins once again exchanged one of their looks.  
"All right," Elrohir finally said. "That will be enough, then. We trust you."

"You do?"

"We do," Elladan affirmed. "Everybody knows that you Wood-elves have an overly large sense of pride and honour. We trust you to keep your word."

There was an insult in there somewhere, apart from the obvious, of course, he was sure of that. He didn't really care anymore, though, so he decided not to pursue it.

"Thank you," he said in a tone of voice that, under different circumstances, could have been called sweet. "Shall we, then?"

The twins nodded at him, joining him as he started to make his way towards the place where the rangers were gathered. It was silent for approximately three seconds before Elrohir cleared his throat and gave Legolas a sidelong glance.

"So ... has your shoulder been hurting today?"

Legolas rolled his eyes, barely refraining from clenching his left fist.  
"No, Elrohir."

Elrohir nodded thoughtfully but was apparently not so easily diverted.  
"What about your stitches, then? They haven't come out yet, have they?"

"No," Legolas said shortly. His side didn't even hurt at the moment, even though he knew that it would as soon as he did anything strenuous, like mount a horse, run or take a deep breath. "Serothlain's fiancée took a look at it yesterday morning, what was her name again...?"

"Hasteth," Elladan supplied helpfully.

"Mistress Hasteth, of course," Legolas repeated. "She took a look at it and told me that she'd be more comfortable leaving them in for another day or so."

"I see." It appeared that Elrohir was not prepared to chance Hasteth's wrath. The woman might be small, but she could be just as frightening as Lady Gaerîn, the master healer in Rivendell who was usually in charge of patching all of them up. "What about...?"

"If you ask me about my hand, Elrohir, I will hurt you, Manwë help me."

"Elrohir," the older twin said calmly, "he promised. Let it be."

Elrohir gave his brother a dark look, and the silent dialogue between the two of them was still going on when they reached the rangers, standing around their leaders in small groups. They were checking their weapons and equipment now, leaving behind everything that wasn't completely essential for their mission. The tension filling the air was almost as great as the one fluttering inside of him, but somehow it made Legolas feel better. It wasn't helpless anymore, it was _purposeful_. They were here, they had found them, and they were doing something, Elbereth be praised.

Haldar and Daervagor stood next to each other, facing away from them and apparently deep in hushed conversation. They were still up the hillside, looking down on the dark opening of the mouth of the cave. They had left their horses and packs with a couple of guards back at the clearing, and had made their way here in a surprisingly and commendably quiet manner. There were scouts scattered around the entrance of the cave, all of them quite visible to Legolas but probably close to undetectable to anyone not possessing elven eyesight. Unfortunately, an orc's night vision almost rivalled an elf's; all of them knew that. There was nothing for it, though, and so they had decided to run the risk and had instructed the scouts to be very, very silent.

Up until now, no one had been detected or killed in a messy way, which Legolas counted as a win. The way things were going right now, almost anything that didn't result in dead bodies (orc bodies excluded) counted as a win.

"Is everything ready?" Elladan asked when they reached the two of them.

Both rangers jumped in surprise, even though most people wouldn't have noticed. Neither of them gave them the satisfaction of turning around to face them, and suddenly Legolas felt pity with them, even with Daervagor. Being human had to be like living in eternal shadow or underwater, forever unable to truly see or hear or smell or _feel _what surrounded them. Legolas could not imagine being so ... closed off from the world, and for a second he asked himself how anybody could live like that at all.

"Yes," was all Daervagor said as they joined the two of them. "The teams have been assembled. As soon as Ereneth is back, we can proceed."

Ereneth, Legolas thought somewhat resentfully. Wherever he turned, wherever he looked, the half-Rohír seemed to be. It wasn't that he distrusted him, but ... well. He distrusted him, somehow. He had been there when Aragorn had been abducted, he had been involved in the search, and now he was the one who knew this cave system. There were other rangers who knew of its existence, but Ereneth was the one who had been able to remember details about its layout. The only saving grace was that he really and truly believed that the tall ranger wanted to help find Aragorn and Halbarad, which was also about the only reason why he hadn't hit him over the head with something yet. But he _knew _something, and he had no idea what, which was what truly vexed him.

As soon as this was over, he was going to have a little chat with him. He was reasonably sure that the ranger wasn't going to enjoy their conversation even one iota, and he didn't care how much Hírgaer glared at him.

"We are still talking about several groups?" Elladan asked, frowning in either doubt or disapproval. "Because, well..."

"We know, my friend," Daervagor said with a somewhat long-suffering sigh. There was underlying tension in his voice, showing how close to gibbering panic he really was, but he seemed to see it like Legolas: They were finally doing something, and that in itself was enough for now. "We know what you think about such a multi-pronged plan of attack. But we have no choice."

And they didn't. If Ereneth was right, which no one truly doubted, then the cave had at least five bigger entrances, and who knew how many more they didn't know about. The five of them had struggled with that for quite some time. They had had two options: Either wait and try to discover as many additional entrances as possible and seal them off before making a move, or make their move now, using only the ones they knew. Both options had their risks, and the debate had been heated for a while. But while the let's-go-now-consequences-be-damned approach held the risk that their targets would be snatched away at the last moment as the orcs made a last-minute escape, the other one had the very great disadvantage of wasting even more time trying to figure out where exactly all the entrances were located. It was the argument that had decided the matter in the end. If they moved now, they risked losing Aragorn and Halbarad again at the last second, but if they waited any longer, they very well might lose them anyway.

And, as far as Legolas was concerned, he would prefer Estel dying in the knowledge that they had come for him and failed, than thinking that they had abandoned him and his cousin.

"So," Elrohir said, before his brother could once again begin to describe just what he thought of their hard-won plan of attack, "are we still talking about five groups, then?"

"We have it down to four now, my lord," Haldar answered him, pointing to the right at the part of the hill that was more heavily wooded than the rest. "The entrance over there must have collapsed during the recent storms. There are rocks and splintered tree trunks everywhere; it looks as if half the hillside collapsed on it. Tarcil and Belvathor had a look at it and reported that no one could still be using it, and they tried it themselves. Belvathor is quite slim and not too tall, so I am inclined to believe them. Even if the orcs could still use it, they could never get Halbarad through there, let alone Estel."

Haldar had a point there. Aragorn was easily the tallest of the rangers here, even though Ereneth came very close, and Halbarad wasn't short either. It had to run in the family.

"Good," Elladan said, nodding his head. "We don't have much time left. The sun will come up in about half an hour."

They were indeed pressed for time, which was yet another reason why Legolas felt as if his insides were slowly liquefying out of sheer nervousness. An orc's night vision might be exceptionally good, and their day vision not too bad either, especially considering that they usually spent the days in their caves and holes, but they did have one weakness. During daybreak, in the short time when night made way for twilight and then the new day, they didn't see all that much.

Legolas had seen it a few times, when pursuing orc hordes that had strayed too far from their holes. In those short minutes of true twilight, they were uncoordinated and seemed to have real trouble focussing on their surroundings. It was temporary, of course, but they intended to use that weakness, and use it well. The orc captain (or the person behind all this, or whoever it was that was responsible) had chosen this site well, and he had posted enough guards to cover an area thrice as big. But they stood a real chance of surprising them if they timed it just right, if they attacked at the exact time that the sun came up. No, he had to correct himself: They _would _surprise them, and they _would _show them just what happened when you went up against the Elves of Mirkwood.

Or the Noldor of Rivendell, or the Dúnedain of the North, for that matter.

"We have made some slight modifications to the plan," Daervagor inserted, seemingly ignoring Elladan's comment. Legolas understood, because ignoring Elladan when he was in this kind of mood was usually the best thing to do. "We still have some minutes before Ereneth should return. Would you like to go over them with me one last time?"

"We would," Elladan and Elrohir said in unison. "There is one other thing, however," Elladan added after half a second.

"Yes?" Daervagor asked, carefully polite.

"We would think it best if ... if..."

"I would like to stay close to Haldar's troop," Legolas said, sighing inwardly and deciding to try and get this over with his dignity as intact as possible. "I think it would be best."

Elladan and Elrohir looked decidedly innocent. Haldar looked doom-struck, as if Legolas had just told him that he would like to take a quick dip in the lava pools of Mount Doom and would love it if he would join him. Daervagor first looked confused and then, after a quick look at the twins, immensely amused. There was a real, genuine twinkle in his eyes when he nodded at Haldar, who had the distinctive look of a rabbit facing down a snake.

"I am sure that won't be a problem, my lord."

Haldar shot his captain a look that could have melted forged steel. Daervagor seemed very unimpressed by it, which seemed to enrage Haldar even more. But he was a ranger, and a respectful one at that, and so he only gritted his teeth and nodded.

"Of course, my lord," Haldar said, giving Legolas something that he clearly thought was a smile. "My men and I would be ... delighted."

"And we trust you to take good care of him," Elladan inserted, giving Haldar a meaningful and rather threatening look. The '_Or else_' went unsaid, but it rang quite loudly through the silence.

"I need no one to take care of me, Elrondion," Legolas said, feeling how his patience slipped once again. "You would do well to remember that."

"He is not even close to healed yet," Elrohir added, acting as if Legolas hadn't even spoken. "We would ... appreciate it, Master Ranger."

Haldar looked from the twins to his captain, shooting him another scorching look.  
"Of course, my lords. We will do our best."

Daervagor was an intelligent man, and knew that Haldar – under enough stress already as it was – was only a step away from committing gross insubordination. He gave the twins a quick look and decided to make a strategic retreat.

"So," he began, leading the twins over to where their impromptu map (made of earth, an assortment of smaller daggers and what looked like every single whetting stone of the company) was located. "We thought it would be best if my and Naurdholen's groups went first and got into position before the other two make a move. Furthermore..."

A moment later the three of them had disappeared in the crowd of rangers who were already assembling in their respective groups. Among Haldar's men Legolas could see Lhanton, who looked especially tense in the pale moonlight, an impression that was only emphasised by the long cut running down the side of his face. There was a tension hanging about him that was also detectable around Ereneth and that Legolas could quite easily understand. It wasn't only that Daervagor and the twins would never forgive the two of them if they didn't get Aragorn back, but it was that _they _would never forgive themselves.

He could emphasise, because neither he nor the twins would, either.

Resigning himself to the fact that he would have to wait another ten minutes or so before they could make a move, he turned to Haldar, who still looked at him as if he had orchestrated all this just to make him miserable. Under different circumstances, that just might have been true, but right now he was about as happy about all this as Haldar was.

"This was not my idea," he told the stony-faced ranger. "I am as thrilled about this as you are."

Haldar gave him a dubious look. Legolas would almost have smiled. This was good, this was _normal_. Teasing Haldar – or rather, terrifying him – was amusing. In a guilty pleasure kind of way, but still. Considering how very and completely not-normal all of this was and how close he was to losing his composure completely, it was very welcome.

"I see."

"You think I would _want _this?" Legolas asked, arching an eyebrow. "I have been grown-up and a fully capable warrior for centuries. For _millennia _even. I don't need you or your men to keep an eye on me."

"Of course not," Haldar said quickly. "I am not sure even Lord Elrond's sons would be up to the task."

Legolas shot him a filthy look. Haldar returned it evenly. He was getting a lot better at that, Legolas noted.

"Do not let yourself be intimidated by the twins. They won't do anything to you, even if you fail to 'keep an eye' on me."

Haldar looked at him as if he had suggested that he stop breathing.  
"I will take your word for it, my lord."

By now, the rangers of Haldar's group had stepped closer, having finished their preparations, and Legolas forced himself to give Lhanton a nod of greeting. Rationally, he understood what the ranger had had to do and that he hadn't stood a chance against Aragorn, but that didn't mean that he could just _forget_. He should probably make sure that neither he nor Ereneth ever crossed paths with Celylith again. He hoped that Celylith would understand (and preferably not kill anyone), he really did, but in matters like these his childhood friend tended to display a distressing lack of understanding.

"We are ready, sir," Lhanton reported, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Haldar and doing his very best not to look at Legolas at all. "Ereneth is driving his brother and everybody else mad, which I take as a sign that Hírgaer's group is ready, too."

"Good," Haldar said, nodding. Judging from the cautious expression on his face, he was very aware of the tension between Legolas and the young ranger. "Any problems?"

"None," Lhanton said curtly. "Not yet, anyway."

"Let's see how long that lasts," the older ranger mumbled pessimistically. "Who lent you a blade?"

"Torthagyl," Lhanton replied with a small wince. "I barely dare use it. He told me in no unclear terms what would happen to me should I return the sword in less than perfect condition."

"You will get your own back soon enough," Haldar said and nodded at the cave below them, referring to the sword Lhanton had given to Aragorn before they had been separated. The fact that the young ranger had given Aragorn his own sword, trying to give him even the slightest edge in the fight to come, was one of the reasons why Legolas hadn't killed him yet. "And until then, Torthagyl's will do. You can say what you want about him, but he knows his blades."

"Indeed," Lhanton agreed. "So, we are as ready as we'll ever be. Now all we need is Naurdholen."

"He should be here soon enough," Haldar said quickly

"Unless they were caught, of course," a voice at the back of the group said, and Ereneth became visible, an almost cheerful smirk on his face. "In which case it will be the will of the Valar."

Legolas turned to look at the tall ranger, who was thankfully still a couple of inches shorter than him.  
"It wouldn't be the will of the Valar," he said, in a voice that brooked no argument. "It would be monumentally bad luck and an option I am _not _ready to contemplate."

Haldar, obviously aware of the fact that Legolas' patience was hanging by a very, very thin thread, jerked his head at his men in a very meaningful manner. Rangers might not eavesdrop, but they surely knew how to read between the lines, and within a matter of seconds the men had dispersed, joining Daervagor and the twins who were standing at the very edge of the hillside. Lhanton and Ereneth remained, however, Lhanton most likely out of a deep-seated desire not to have to face the twins unless completely necessary and Ereneth because he just hadn't noticed the tension, as he usually didn't. Ereneth, no matter how annoying Legolas found him, was very refreshing in that regard.

"Sometimes," Legolas said through gritted teeth, "the Dúnedain brand of pessimism is close to driving me to distraction. And, let me make note of that, I _do _hail from Mirkwood, which, unfortunately, isn't the safest or brightest place at the moment."

Lhanton and Ereneth exchanged a look.  
"We like to call it 'experience'," Ereneth told him.

"I am sure you do," Legolas said with a completely insincere smile. He took a deep breath and turned around to Haldar, forcing himself not to snap at the rangers. It wasn't their fault; it was simply that he was frightened and panicked and so tense that he it was a miracle that he hadn't snapped in half yet.

"They mean well," Haldar told him after a moment or two, nodding at the two rangers still standing behind them.

"I know," Legolas told him, forcing down his irritation. "Ereneth tends to do it in a rather ... unique way."

Haldar nodded in agreement. It was silent for a few moments while both of them looked down the sparsely wooded slope onto the hill opposite and the dark mouth of the cave. Legolas had the feeling that, if he only tried hard enough, he could see the shadows of the orc guards that he knew were posted there.

"We will find them," Haldar told him when the silence stretched and became oppressive. He was fingering his strung longbow in a not so hidden nervous manner. "I know it in my heart. This time, we will find them."

"I hope you are right, Master Ranger," Legolas replied, trying not to let the man see how nervous and doubtful he really was. "But the cave is a maze, and not even Ereneth could remember more of its layout than the basest of facts. There is no telling where they are keeping Estel and Halbarad, and no way to block all the exits to prevent the orcs from escaping with their prisoners at the last moment." He shook his head, studying the cave and its surroundings, and finally sighed softly. "This is not going to be easy."

The ranger gave him a small, sad smile.  
"Nothing worthwhile ever is, my lord."

Legolas looked at him, deciding that, if this wasn't the man who had involved Aragorn in all this, he might end up liking him. He wasn't about to tell him that, of course, and he was saved from replying by Ereneth and Lhanton, who stepped closer in the exact same moment that Legolas saw a flicker of movement ghosting across the cave's entrance. Two orcs appeared for a second or two, nothing but dark shades against the deeper shadows of the cave.

All of them froze on the spot, even though they knew that the orcs couldn't see them. The orcs seemed to gauge how much time they had before daybreak, gesturing at each other while conversing in their foul tongue. For a second, Legolas was back in that small cave, weak and helpless and unable to do anything while Buzgókh and his friends burned Celylith. He shook off the feeling with far more trouble than he would have liked, forcing himself to stay calm. The two orcs were still there, talking to each other, and without conscious thought Legolas turned to the person closest him, namely Haldar.

"If they ... if they capture me again..." he began haltingly.

"I know, my lord," Haldar said, patting his bow meaningfully. "Shoot you."

Legolas stared at the ranger, as close to completely incredulous as he had ever been.  
"No! No, no, no, no, no, shoot _them_! Honestly, what is _wrong _with you people?"

Behind them, Ereneth and Lhanton stared at the branches of the nearest tree, struggling to keep their faces serious. Legolas looked back at Haldar, who had the good grace to look slightly uncomfortable.

"I am sorry, my lord," the ranger said, inclining his head. "I just ... assumed."

"That I can see," Legolas told him. This was becoming far too surreal, and it seemed like a very good place to end this conversation. "I am going to join the twins and Daervagor. As soon as Naurdholen and the others arrive and everything is ready, I will join you and your men." He turned to leave, but stopped and turned back around. "Just ... just don't shoot me, will you? There is only one rule: Don't shoot me, shoot the orcs."

A smile tugged at the corners of Haldar's mouth.  
"We shall do our best, my lord."

Legolas rigorously suppressed the urge to smile and turned around without another word, walking towards where Elladan, Elrohir and Daervagor were deeply immersed in conversation with Hírgaer and another ranger he didn't recognise. Rangers ... Valar, what a strange bunch. He could probably count himself lucky if he didn't end up with an arrow in his back because one of the rangers wanted to _help _him.

Then Naurdholen and the other scouts arrived, and suddenly Legolas didn't think about trivialities like who was going to shot whom and why. The only think he cared about at the moment was Aragorn, and how he would be damned if he allowed the young human to end up like Celylith, broken and not even half-alive.

First Celylith, then Aragorn, Legolas thought as he increased his pace, feeling fury build inside of him. The Noldor might have seeking revenge down to an art form, but he was his father's son, and he, like Celylith, did _not _forgive certain things.  
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**TBC...  
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**_Dúnedain (pl. of dúnadan) (Sindarin) – 'Men of the West', rangers  
mellon nín (S.) – my friend  
tark (Black Speech) – Man of Gondor/of Númenórean heritage  
snaga (B.S.) - 'slave', used for the 'lesser' breeds of orcs  
orch (S.) - orc, goblin  
Na i nathath Udûn, glamog (S.) - (Go) into the pits of Angband, orc_

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**_**So, everybody's angry, and Aragorn and Halbarad (who, as it seems, got infected with Aragorn's very particular way of Dealing With One's Captors) are in very, very deep trouble. So, what else is new? *g* The Ingenious And Timely Rescue****, you ask? Well, it's underway. It really is, I promise. *g* So, stay tuned for mayhem, blood and Very Angry Rangers And Elves With Sharp Implements. And, as it so happens, the best-laid plans of mice and men ... uh, elves ... often DO go awry. Don't look at me like that. You know how I am. *g* So, as always, reviews make me happy. Very much so, even.**

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**Additional A/N:**

**Many apologies to asdfjkl;, Beltainwitch, shieldmaidenofthecarribean, Clodia and MeLaNY8. Since FF-net is evil and mean, I reply to reviews via a huge group email. Therefore, if you wish to be included, please make sure that you have a working email address listed on your profile page or, if you wish to review anonymously, that you leave your address in a way that FF-net won't find edible, so to speak. Sorry for the inconvenience, and thank you very much for your reviews!**


	27. Free Fall

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Yeah. Well. So. You know, there were all these things I had to do, like getting my master's. And then I was abroad for several months, and visiting my mother in Portugal, and then I was in Albania and then I got back and had to find a new flat, and then my sister moved to Argentina and I started getting my PhD and went abroad again for several excavations, and then I was in Italy and in Portugal again and I was busy with that one excavation and ... *trails off* Enough?  
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**Enough. So, me, busy, everybody else, completely right when they say that I hardly can have been THAT busy. And I wasn't. I just didn't have a lot of free time on my hands and I was worried that, once I started writing again for real, I would again get drawn in and it would collide with all my other projects. Also, I might have had a small after-master's degree panic. Which I combatted by being home about four months out of twelve, and abroad for about six and a half of said twelve.  
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**So ... what can I say? I never really stopped writing this story, and would never just STOP, especially at such a point. Come on, guys, I'm mean, but I'm not THAT mean. I can't promise you to post regularly like I used to do, since summer's almost upon us and with it the main excavating season. Then again, I just have one or two this summer, so that shouldn't take longer than two months max. But by now I know that I will not write nor post during a dig, especially now that I have a degree and a certain kind of responsibility and paperwork comes with it, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it (and everybody who has ever watched Stargate SG-1 knows that that particular cliché doesn't _always _work). I do promise, however, to try and keep posting with some sort of regularity. There. I did promise SOMETHING. *g*  
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**Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes. The Timely And Ingenious Rescue™. It's underway. Really, really, it is, stop laughing over there! *g* Also, the twins are feeling properly Noldorin right now, Daervagor is fed up, and Aragorn's decided that enough is enough. So has Skagrosh. Legolas is channelling his father, and underground caves are dangerous in surprising ways. And ... uhm, you might want to re-read the last chapter, and maybe the one before that, because, Gods, it's been a long time.  
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**Enjoy, and try not to faint from surprise! It's not a hallucination, I promise.  
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Chapter 27

Elrohir was beginning to think that he had made a grave mistake, if not a fatal one.

He really, really should have taken Daervagor up on his offer of tying Elladan and Legolas to a tree, or maybe even a couple of trees if he was feeling generous. Right about now, he was not feeling generous at all.

"Elladan," he whispered, feeling how the last fragile threads of his patience snapped one by one. "For the last time, _we cannot_. We have to give the others more time."

His twin looked at him as if he had just told him that there would be no _Yestarë _presents this year, or the next five-hundred years at that.

"We have given them more than enough time," Elladan whispered back furiously. "They should be in position by now."

"They are _not_ in position," another voice interrupted them, sounding just as tense as the two of them. A soft, almost undetectable sound could be heard, and a moment later Daervagor appeared at Elladan's side, crouching low in an attempt to stay in the cover of the large shrub in front of them. "If they were, they would have signalled us. Therefore, no one is going to move in yet."

Elrohir nodded at him. Elladan glared, which Daervagor didn't even seem to notice.

"They could have been detected," Elladan whispered, clearly not prepared to give up so easily. "They could have lost their way. They are but human, after all."

Daervagor gave the older twin a _look _that was almost Elrondish in its intensity. It was very clearly visible now that night was making way for day.

"They are rangers, Elladan," the captain told him. "They know what they are doing, and they most certainly can find their way across five hundred yards of dark forest without being detected. This is what we _do_."

"They are _humans_," Elladan stressed. When his brother was nervous and afraid, he tended to be quite uncompromising, Elrohir thought. "I am not prone to speciesisms, but there are some things humans just can't do as well as elves. Even Númenóreans."

"What would you have us do, my lord?" Daervagor hissed back. "Turn into elves in the next five minutes or so?"

Elladan looked as if he was seriously considering answering the question, and Elrohir decided that it was time to intervene. The last thing he wanted was having to explain to their father just how their almost-foolproof rescue plan had failed because Elladan and Daervagor had been too busy killing each other.

"Let's focus on the important things now, shall we?" he asked. Both Elladan and he had tried to dim the light their bodies emitted in the dark – a trick that most elves learned sometime after their first millennium or so –, but dawn was breaking and the light was sufficient for him to see the two of them look at him mutinously. "You know, like the orcs? Or Estel and Halbarad?"

Elf and ranger first looked at each other and then at him, faint guilt on their faces that quickly turned into not-so-faint resentment.

"Don't," he told them in a fierce whisper that, as he hoped, conveyed the entirety of his annoyance that was bordering dangerously close on anger. "I don't want to hear another word about any of this. The first one who crosses me I will..."

"Hit over the head," Elladan finished his sentence, sounding resigned. "Yes, I thought you might."

"No, I won't," Elrohir disagreed. "I will volunteer his services to Captain Isál to help plan the wedding. I predict a total loss of sanity in less than two days."

Elladan swallowed painfully. Daervagor clearly had no idea what he was talking about, but from the look on Elladan's face he could perceive that that would _not _be a good thing. Both of them fell silent, and Elrohir took a deep breath to calm himself as the silence deepened. This was it, this was their final chance to do something right for once and save Aragorn. The possibility of failure was inconceivable to him, but the mere thought of what failure would mean for the future of all of Arda was so utterly terrifying that it constricted his chest as if bands of iron were squeezing the air out of his lungs.

Elrohir was doing his best not to slip into a state of mindless panic when a lark could be heard, trilling a few short notes. It was a bit early and also slightly hoarse, but it was the signal they had been waiting for. Next to him, Elladan noticeably perked up. Daervagor just took a deep breath and turned around, moving over to Tarcil's side who was crouching a few feet to their left.

"Three minutes," he whispered. "Go."

The boy nodded and scooted away. Elrohir turned back to Elladan and gave him a threatening look when his older brother made a show out of testing the edge of his sword with his thumb.

"Let Daervagor take the lead unless told otherwise," he told him in a low voice, reaching up to take an arrow out of the quiver strapped to his back. He then re-arranged the folds of his coat, ensuring that his light shirt was entirely covered by the dark-grey fabric. "Do you hear me, Elladan? If you suddenly decide to push your way to the front, someone will put an arrow into your back. They are humans and cannot react as quickly as we can."

"I hear you," his brother told him calmly while he picked up the bow he had placed next to him, testing the tension of the string. "And I will. But once we're inside ... well, that's another thing entirely. I will promise nothing."

Elrohir just looked at his brother, wondering whether he should hug or hit the idiot. Right now, he would have liked to do both.

"And I would never ask you to, _gwanûr_. You should know that." Elladan looked up, a questioning look in his eyes, and Elrohir couldn't help but smile. "As soon as we're inside, I will be right next to you, outrunning the rest of them." Elladan only blinked, and Elrohir shook his head. "Please, Elladan. Whom do you think you're talking to?"

Elladan didn't say anything for a moment or two, but then he shook his head, transferred the bow to his left hand and reached out to try and ruffle his hair. Elrohir, being a younger brother, had centuries of experience avoiding such humiliating displays of affection, and managed to twist out of the way just in time.

"If you try to do that again, with a good quarter of Daervagor's men watching, I shall do something dreadful to you," he hissed, trying to put real vexation into his voice.

Elladan looked entirely unimpressed, and so he only narrowed his eyes at him and turned away, staring sightlessly into the gloom. He knew that his brother wanted to distract him, that Elladan knew how very close to his breaking point he really was, but there was nothing in the world that would be able to calm him now. He would have liked to say that all he cared about was his little brother and that revenge or vengeance were the farthest things from his mind at the moment, but that would have been a lie. He was a Noldo, after all, and could not deny the dark, choking _wrath _swirling inside of him. He wanted to kill the worthless creatures lurking within that cave, and do it in the slowest and most painful manner imaginable.

Elrohir would almost have smiled. Most people only saw that, in spirit, he didn't resemble their father as much as Elladan did and that he had inherited their mother's gentler, more temperate character. But those people also forgot one very important thing, namely that Lady Celebrían was the daughter of Lady Galadriel. There wasn't much that Alatáriel of Aman did not know about vengeance and wrath, and for better or worse, he was her grandson.

Elladan looked at him, worry and fear and that selfsame wrath shining in his eyes, and Elrohir was once again struck by how much his brother could look like Glorfindel in a rage. Or like their father in a rage, which was an even rarer sight to behold. To him, it looked more like he had always reckoned Glorfindel had looked liked when he had engaged the balrog, and, well, a similar outcome wasn't something he was was willing to accept.

"If I were a wood-elf, I would suggest a competition," he said, giving his brother a look full of meaning that he knew Elladan understood. It said _'Be careful'_, and _'Don't you dare get killed'_, and _'The one to get injured first has to tell _ada _about this'_ and a host of other things, and Elladan smiled back at him. "Thank goodness I am not, of course."

Elladan returned the look.

"All that counting always distracts me. I quite detest that ... Silvan obsession."

"So let's just kill them," Elrohir agreed. He made sure that his sword slid easily out of its sheath and began to move forward, towards Daervagor and the others, his inner clock telling him that the allotted three minutes were finally up. Elladan followed him without a word, his face too calm and expressionless, and with a sidelong glance at him he added under his breath, "Two, by the way."

His words had the desired effect. When they reached Daervagor and Tarcil, Elladan turned to him, faint, but not entirely mock outrage in his eyes.

"Two? How, pray tell?"

Elrohir couldn't answer immediately, because in that moment they were scrambling down the hill, avoiding bushes and trees and uncooperative rocks. Or rather, only the rangers scrambled – even though, admittedly, they did it rather quietly – because there were things elves just didn't do.

They reached the valley floor within a few seconds and without an alarm being raised, which, for Elrohir, counted as a definite win. Without any kind of order having to be uttered, the group dispersed along the rising hillside. They had debated their tactics earlier, and even though everything inside of Elrohir had protested against splitting up their already depleted forces, he had agreed with the others that this was most likely the best course of action. Surprising the orcs at dawn was doable, but even they weren't complete idiots and would see them coming if they all trudged up the hill like a party of dwarves returning to their mine after a long night at the tavern.

Daervagor was the only one ahead of them, shadowed by a tall tree and standing so still and motionless that he might as well have been jumping up and down in agitation. Elladan came to a stop next to the man while they waited for the rest of their men to catch up and glared at him, and so Elrohir felt obliged to answer his earlier question.

"Those two scouts we encountered a few hours ago?" he said, shooting his brother a quick look. "They count as mine."

Elladan only stared at him. The incredulity was visible even in the gloom, and under different circumstances Elrohir might have thrown back his head and laughed out loud.

"The _scouts_?" his beloved twin repeated, looking at him as if he had either lost his mind or told a most atrocious lie. "For one, they were stragglers, not scouts, and we came upon them by accident only. Two, you killed only one of them, again quite by accident. The other one was startled by Haldar's men and fell off that cliff."

Elrohir smiled serenely, knowing that it would drive his brother to distraction. It was true, of course; they had stumbled over a couple of stragglers a few hours ago, which had alarmed them greatly. The two orcs had been dispatched with ease: One had indeed tumbled down the rocky hillside and broken its neck in the fall, while the other had fallen to Elrohir's arrow. He still wasn't sure who had been more surprised, them or the two orcs, but at least the easily visible surprise on the orcs' faces had answered the question of whether or not the two of them had been scouts. If they were, they had been the worst ones in the long history of useless orcish scouts.

But still, their sudden appearance had emphasised their desperate need to get in – and, preferably, out of – the cave as quickly and quietly as possible. Elrohir rather doubted that the orc leader would suspect anyone to come for his captives, not after so many days of fruitless search. He would hardly miss two stragglers. Or rather, the leader wouldn't have any reason to suspect their coming unless he had been warned by the Master or someone working for him. And if that was the case, they were walking into a trap and were already as good as dead.

"Even if it did fall off the cliff, I was standing closer to it when it did than you," Elrohir told him quickly, seeing that the other groups had almost reached their own gathering points. "That makes both of them mine."

"Oh, _gwanûr dithen_, you know what this means, don't you?" Elladan whispered back. "I can beat both you _and _Legolas, with one hand tied behind my back, if I have to."

"Legolas doesn't even know about this, brother dear."

Elladan shrugged.

"He is a wood-elf. Sometimes I think they have got an inbuilt counter that activates every time they go into something even remotely resembling a battle. And by default it's set to 'five more than you'."

It was clear that his twin wanted to say more, but all thoughts of levity evaporated into nothing when Daervagor turned towards them. In all honesty, Elrohir suddenly couldn't remember what they had just been talking about – insulting the Wood-elves in general and Legolas in particular had probably been involved, that was a rather safe bet –, because all of the sudden nothing mattered except for what they would do in the next ten minutes.

"Ready?" Daervagor asked before turning back around to nod at Tarcil, who seemed to have materialised out of thin air.

"Of course," Elladan shot back, sounding almost offended. "And we have been for a while now."

Daervagor, for once, didn't rise to the bait Elladan was dangling in front of his eyes with the proverbial diabolical grin. Elrohir felt proud of him, for the exact one and a half seconds it took the man to take a deep breath and push past them, a strange sort of cold, angry determination on his face.

"Good. You wanted to go first, so go ahead. There are four sentinels. Take them out; we'll be right behind you to take care of anyone you might miss."

"We don't _miss_," Elladan hissed, but Daervagor wasn't listening. A moment later he was gone, disappearing behind the trunk of a tree. A couple of heartbeats passed and then he was back, Tarcil beside him, and Elrohir decided in an instant that if he couldn't follow the movements of a human, _dúnadan _or not, he really was in far worse a state of mind than he'd thought.

It didn't matter. All thoughts of Daervagor faded away, as did the small sounds that betrayed the passage of the rangers as they pushed their way through the brush covering the steep hillside and towards the entrance of the cave. At least one of the others groups had to have reached their point of entry already, Elrohir reasoned, most likely Hírgaer and Ereneth and their men, their cave entrance being located the closest to the valley floor. Judging by the absence of orcish shrieks of outrage and alarm, they seemed to have managed to get past the guards without being detected by the horde.

A few moments later they were there, only a few scraggly trees separating them from the ragged opening in the rocks and the four orcs standing, bored, directly in front of the mouth of the cave. The ground stopped sloping upwards here, forming a small plateau that looked almost like a naked little islands amidst the heavy undergrowth all around them. The rocky ground had been laid bare, maybe by a landslide, maybe by naturally occurring erosion, and had not yet recovered enough soil to support any substantial growth.

They should have been seen, Elrohir knew that very well. Elladan and he were elves, yes, but they were being followed by nine rangers who simply couldn't be as stealthy as they, Númenóreans or not. But they had timed it right. For one, the orcs were bored and tired after a long night of keeping watch, and besides, the soft golden glow of the rising sun was sweeping over the heavens. Elrohir hardly dared to breathe and waited until the last ranger had settled, but it was true: The orcs continued to look just as bored as before.

They had not been detected. Their plan had worked. He could scarcely believe it, because ... well. That was unusual, to say the least.

All the fear and panic swirling inside of Elrohir seemed to fall away, leaving only determination and the anger that he barely held in check, and he locked eyes with his twin. They would go in there and find Estel, and the more orcs came between them and their goal, the better.

Elladan caught his gaze, that same fury radiating off him in waves that the orcs should have seen even in this twilight. There was a tiny, dark smile tugging at the corner of his twin's lip that was inexorably connected with them hunting orcs, and on an unspoken signal both of them stepped around the trees they had been using for cover, bows at the ready. Elrohir knew that they wouldn't be more than dark grey shadows to the orcs, coming out of the twilight like the ghosts of the dead, and suddenly there was that smile on his lips, too. Countless hours, countless _years_ of practice came to the fore as they moved as one, walking towards the cave with calm, measured steps.

His first target didn't even have time to react before his arrow found its mark. The orc collapsed without a sound, only a fracture of a second after Elladan's first target. The third and fourth orc had enough time for a faint flicker of surprise to flash over their faces before two more arrows found their marks, and they, too, sank to the floor without uttering a sound. Elrohir didn't even slow his walk and only reached up to reload his bow, out of the corner of his eyes seeing Elladan do the same. Their two latest targets hadn't even fully collapsed yet when they reached the cave, and then they were inside.

Elrohir checked a crack in the wall for any particularly thin or sneaky orcs while Elladan walked past him towards their fallen foes. He quickly bent down to ensure that the orcs were, in fact, dead – there was nothing more embarrassing, not to mention potentially fatal, than making mistakes such as this one.

By the time Elladan was straightening back up and he himself had ascertained that there was no one lurking in the immediate vicinity, the rangers had reached them. The men pushed past them wordlessly, taking up positions at the far side of the small cave, guarding the two tunnels that loomed there, almost indistinguishable against the smooth, dark-grey stone of the walls.

Elrohir gave the bodies of the orcs a last look before his eyes strayed to the horizon. There were a few clouds littering the sky here and there, but all in all it looked like another dry, fine morning. The first rays of the rising sun were just creeping over the horizon when he turned around and stepped into the cave, the gloom swallowing him like a living, greedy creature its prey. He swallowed heavily as he stepped over the still body of one of the orcs. He really had to stop thinking in such depressing metaphors.

He headed toward the closest tunnel entrance, seeing that Elladan was already waiting there, bow safely returned to his back. In the narrow tunnels bows would hinder them far more than help them. It was a place for knives and daggers and silent movement in the dark. Elrohir was shouldering his own bow when Daervagor intercepted him, eyes dark and a tight set to his mouth and shoulders.

"_You just walk up to them? _Are you and that brother of yours _trying _to get yourselves killed, or is it just a happy coincidence?" the man asked in a low tone of voice. "Whatever would I tell your father?"

Elrohir just _looked _at him, and only the knowledge of how deeply, deeply afraid Daervagor was for Halbarad and Estel and every single one of his men drowned out the desire to bite off his head, literally or not-so-literally.

"It was the fastest way," he answered as gently as he could manage at the moment, and continued towards Elladan. The ranger followed him doggedly, that stubborn, determined expression on his face that Elrohir had seen too many times and that was so much _Arathorn _that he would have liked to cry. "Before this is over, a little recklessness is going to be the least of our worries, trust me, _mellon nín_. And no matter what you will have to tell our father, it will be nothing in comparison to telling him we lost Estel."

"I am not going to lose anybody else," Daervagor told him, no, _hissed_. "Not you, not your brother, not Estel, and not my son. _Nobody_."

Good, Elrohir thought to himself, noticing the unadulterated anger on the other's face. Anger was good, far better than that brittle, frightening composure from earlier. Anger he had millennia of experience of dealing with, especially after hundreds, no, thousands of years of needling Elladan. That barely-there calmness that threatened to give out any second ... that was something he didn't know how to deal with, even though or maybe because he had been so close to that particular abyss more than once himself. Daervagor glared at him for a moment longer before he whirled around, gesturing at two of the rangers. By the time Elrohir had reached his brother's side, the two men were standing in front of their captain, respectfully awaiting their orders.

"You two stay here and keep watch," Daervagor began, looking at both of them intently, before he glanced at the dark, ragged openings in the cave wall. "Watch both tunnels. If you play your cards right, you will be able to hold this position for quite a while. The tunnels are too narrow to allow more than two people passage at once. No matter what happens, you don't follow us. No matter what you hear, no matter who may call out to you, you don't follow. Do you understand me?"

The two of them nodded silently, eyes dark in their shadowed faces, but Daervagor reached out and grasped both of them tightly by the shoulder.

"If we lose this position, we lose our main exit point," the captain added, pronouncing the words so carefully that he might as well have been spelling them out in a foreign language. "If we lose this position, we are all dead. We cannot rely on the others getting through as easily as we have. Do you understand me? If we get pushed back here, it won't matter whom we'll find and in what condition, because we'll all die right there with them."

The two rangers looked at each other for half a second before the older one turned quicksilver eyes – Ranger eyes, Elrohir thought, Aragorn's eyes – on his superior, a calm certainty on his face.

"We will hold, sir," he said, and there was so much conviction in his voice that even Elrohir couldn't help but feel reassured. "We will hold, even if they throw half of Mordor's pits against us. And if they do that, we will make them pay dearly for every single inch of ground they gain."

"Good," Daervagor said, his own eyes reflecting an almost feverish intensity. "If you are discovered, hold them until you can't. And then," he added, lowering his voice, "I want you to turn around and run, and tell the other captains what has happened here."

The younger one snorted very softly, eyes moving over his gathered comrades.

"Hardly."

Daervagor turned with the speed of a snake. The young ranger reacted much like a rabbit would have: He froze, eyes large as his superior moved half a step closer, now almost standing on top of him.

"You bloody well will," Daervagor told him, not even raising his voice. He still looked calm, but that anger from before was blazing in his grey eyes in a way that would have awed even the most unshakable elf-lord. "I know that you don't want to leave your comrades and run away, but I – don't – care. If it happens, if it comes to _that_, then nothing you can do will help us. You would only die with us. The rest of the captains will want my head anyway when they hear about this. I need you to make sure that they _do _hear about it."

"But..." the young ranger tried again. He was brave, Elrohir decided, if nothing else.

"No," Daervagor said almost gently. "I ask only this of you. Your deaths would help no one. I need you to try and warn our people." The two rangers clenched their teeth, and Daervagor clearly lost the rest of his patience. "Think what you will. This is a direct order," the captain went on and gave both of them a stare of pure menace. "And, by the Valar, you'd better obey it."

"Yes, sir," the older man said quickly before his companion could say anything. "If it comes to it, we will do our best to escape. After killing as many of them as possible, of course."

"Good," Daervagor said again. "I expected nothing less from you. It won't come to that, of course. We'll be back in less than half an hour."

"Of course, sir," the ranger echoed forlornly. "Of course you will."

Rangers, Elrohir decided, were a far too depressing bunch.

Daervagor turned around without saying another word. He walked the few steps towards where Elrohir and his brother were standing next to one of the tunnels, waiting not-so-patiently for the sign to move on.

"Ready?" the captain asked, pulling his sword out of its sheath.

Elrohir could feel Elladan bristle next to him, and he silently jammed his elbow into his twin's side. Having to deal with Elladan's particular brand of oh-so-easily offended pride sometimes made him feel like someone juggling a trio of Mithrandir's larger firecrackers. He knew that it was nothing but nervous energy brimming over, but sometimes he truly wished Elladan to be a little more like Erestor and a little less like Glorfindel in full come-on-you-stupid-balrog-I-dare-you mode.

"Of course," he said in his most reasonable voice. "We will follow you."

Daervagor nodded, said a few quiet words to his men, and then they were off, moving soundlessly down the corridor. Within moments of moving down the twisting passage, Elladan and he had pushed their way to the front, ahead of the rest of their party. Daervagor hadn't been happy about it, but the man knew that this was their best chance of making it deeper into the caves without being detected.

...or that was what Elrohir thought until he had to grasp the back of Elladan's coat to stop his twin from colliding head-first with an orc that had just turned the corner in front of them.

Their one saving grace was that the orc in question seemed just as surprised as them. It had been shuffling along quite happily, to drop in on the now-dead guards at the end of this tunnel, Elrohir reckoned, and the last thing it must have expected was running into a couple of slack-jawed elves. The fact that they, too, hadn't been expecting to run into a slack-jawed orc only made things worse.

Thankfully, elven reflexes were still a lot sharper than orcish ones. Elladan's knife was half out of its sheath by the time Elrohir had the time to let go of his brother and reach for his own. The long, glittering blade arced up and to the side, and Elrohir involuntarily closed his eyes as hot, viscous fluid splashed up the side of his face. There was a soft, sighing sound, and by the time he had reached up and scrubbed the liquid out of his eyes the orc had collapsed in a loose heap, its armour clanking against the rock floor of the tunnel.

It took some seconds until Elrohir could see again. He finally succeeded in wiping the blood out of his eyes, and he turned to his brother, an eyebrow raised. Elladan frowned, sheathed his dagger and shrugged apologetically.

"I am sorry."

"You are not," Elrohir told his brother in a dark whisper.

"Not really, no," Elladan admitted. "Next time, stop staring and move out of the way."

"Yes, well," Daervagor interjected, suddenly stepping between them. "I'm sure he'll do that. Can we move on?"

Elrohir turned around. Daervagor seemed to be the only one able to move. The rest of the rangers were standing behind them, looking like a group of very shocked statues. Well, he thought, turning back around and pushing past the captain without a word. At least the rangers had been as surprised as them, which ... didn't really make it any better either.

They should have heard the orc coming. That they hadn't was only yet another sign that Elladan and he were far, far more distracted than they should be. Allowing themselves to get distracted now, in an _orc cave_, was stupid, and suicidal, and something that wouldn't even happen to a first-year recruit. Then again, Elrohir knew that something like this _had _happened to at least one first-year recruit – and Isál was still willing to do almost anything in order not to have _that _particular story spread –, but that was entirely beside the point. The fact that Isál had not only survived that particular mishap but had also managed to turn into a good and capable, if sometimes rather irrational, captain, was only a small consolation.

A few minutes later, Elrohir was pressing his back against the wall of the tunnel, with Elladan craning his neck to look over his shoulder and at the same time making urgent gestures at the following rangers to stay back. Elrohir realised he was holding his breath and forced himself to inhale, slowly, while he counted the orcs milling about the space in front of him. The tunnel opened onto a large cave, by far the largest they had passed so far. And this...

"This could get interesting," he finished his own thought in a low whisper.

He could almost see how Elladan arched an eyebrow, though he didn't turn around.

"'Interesting' is an _interesting _way of putting it," Elladan hissed back. "It's not possible. Not if we want to remain undetected."

Truth to be told, Elrohir _didn't _want to remain undetected. He wanted to go into that cave and kill each and every orc he could get his hands on. He couldn't, of course, not if he wanted Aragorn and Halbarad to live, and so he forced himself to assess the situation. And he had to agree with his brother. This seemed to be the main cave where most of the orcs socialised – or whatever it was that orcs did in their spare time –, and if the number of orcs here was an indicator of the total number of goblins present in this cave, then they were all in big trouble. There was no way they could cross this cave without every single orc in the cave system knowing.

"Oh," a soft voice said behind them. Then, with feeling, "Damn it_._"

Elrohir didn't have to turn around to know that that was _not _Daervagor. Next to him, Elladan made a sound that was somewhere between frustration, anger, and disappointment, and now he did turn around. The ranger who had spoken was Tarcil, the young one with the good eyesight who sometimes – often – reminded Elrohir of Estel. Elrohir looked back, and saw that the group behind them had been reduced to four. Daervagor and another ranger were gone, and Elrohir felt a sudden stab of panic. First that orc popping up out from nowhere, now this. If Glorfindel ever heard about this, he would first have their heads on a platter and then begin to seriously question his teaching methods.

"Where are...?" Elladan hissed, hand already reaching for one of his daggers.

Before he could finish his sentence, Daervagor suddenly seemed to appear out of the sheer rock wall to their right. If Elrohir hadn't been an elf, he might have jumped in surprise. This way, he simply glared at the man – and, as a question of general principle, also at the second ranger who appeared behind him – and jerked his head in their direction. A moment later Daervagor was next to him, peering around the protruding rock into the large cave.

"Oh," Daervagor echoed Tarcil's earlier uttering. "Not that way, then."

Elrohir could almost feel Elladan take a deep, annoyed breath.

"No," he agreed with far more calmness than he felt before his brother could say anything. "We could try and circle back, see if we missed anything. Or..."

"That won't be necessary," Daervagor told them curtly. "There's another passageway leading northwest. No matter what's down there, it should be a far better bet than trying to get through," he made a vague gesture into the direction of the cave, "through _that_."

Since _that_ was an almost certain way of committing very, _very _messy suicide, Elrohir had to agree with him.

There were a lot of things he could have said. He could have reminded Daervagor to be careful. He could have told him to try and find another way that didn't involve quite so much "May be" or "Should be". He could have told him that Estel and Halbarad wouldn't want them to needlessly risk their lives by entering dark tunnels without proper reconnaissance, that two lives were no reason to risk nine more in such a manner.

But one of those two lives was Estel's life and one was his cousin's, and that meant that, to Elrohir, they were worth almost any number of others. He glanced at Elladan before he looked back at Daervagor, and nodded.

"After you, then."

A few moments later and with producing only minimal noise, they had squeezed themselves through the fissure. The sound of the arguing orcs faded behind them almost immediately, and Elrohir had to blink to reorient himself. Even his elven eyesight had trouble dealing with the almost complete blackness that surrounded them, whispering of confinement and desperation and lost hope. Without the minimal illumination that a few scattered orc torches had provided until now, this very narrow tunnel was pitch-black. Dúnedain eyesight was good, but not _that _good. Which, of course, meant that the two of them would have to take the lead, preferably with the rest of the group staying as far behind them as and tactically feasible.

Oh, Daervagor was going to love this.

Elladan was already whispering some words to Daervagor, who obviously couldn't see him at all clearly, since the man was currently addressing his twin's ear. But whatever Elladan had said, it seemed to have convinced the captain, because Daervagor jerked his head in Elladan's general direction.

"Go," the man said. "No more than thirty feet ahead of us, and if you run into any more ... surprises, fall back immediately."

The twins exchanged a look that none but them could see. It was a good thing, too, since it literally screamed "Let's humour the poor, clueless human, why don't we?"

"Of course," Elrohir said, always the more skilled liar of the two of them. "We wouldn't dream of doing anything else."

If they hadn't been stranded in an orc cave, only yards away from what appeared to be the main gathering place, Daervagor might have laughed out loud. This way, he only glared at them, in a way that would have made most elf-lords jealous. Elrohir ignored it and pushed past his brother, taking point. Every moment they spent in here arguing was another moment Estel and Halbarad were at the mercy of their captors, and another moment he wasn't allowed to kill said captors.

Since he really wanted to put an end to the first and get on with the second, he was in somewhat of a hurry.

It took them only about five or six minutes to reach the end of the dark tunnel, but Elrohir would have been willing to swear that it had, in fact, been far longer. Neither him nor Elladan could see perfectly, and the tunnel had an annoying tendency to twist sideways, and if it didn't do that, then the passageway shrank to less than two feet in width, making the passage almost impossible, or the ceiling suddenly dropped a yard or more, forcing them to crouch and move almost on all fours. Coupled with an almost complete certainty that orcs would come pouring out of some crevice or other any second now, this made for some of the most nerve-wracking minutes of Elrohir's life, which had been quite long and not short of nerve-wracking situations and times.

In the end they managed to make it with only a few bumps and bruises and, in one case, a bloody scratch on a forehead that would embarrass the owner far more than pain him come morning. The tunnel led to what looked like a passageway, dimly lit by a few torches, and Elrohir pressed himself against the rock wall next to his brother and urgently gestured at the rest of the party to stay back.

The tunnel, or at least the part Elrohir could survey from where he was standing, was ... empty. Completely and utterly empty, and seemed about as threatening as a underdeveloped baby rabbit. The sounds of fighting and yelling could still be heard, but vague and muffled and reassuringly far away.

It was something that made him instantly suspicious, of course. Nothing that looked this peaceful and harmless ever really was, after all. Since he was a Noldo, some sort of quasi-atavistic memory activated almost immediately inside of him, a memory of what happened when strange, just-a-little-too-beautiful elves turned up with "wonderful ideas for a revolutionary way of metalworking".

"What is it?" Elladan asked next to him, eyeing the empty passage with a mixture of distaste and impatience. "Is it clear?"

"Yes," Elrohir told him, thus deciding that no matter how this looked, they didn't have any choice but to press on. "It seems to be a side-passage that leads away from the main cave."

"And if it's this empty, it's either disused or an area that, out of whatever reason, is not open to the average orc," his brother finished his sentence for him. "This could be ... auspicious."

Or it could be a trap, was what Elrohir didn't say. He didn't need to. Elladan knew it as well as he did, if not better (Elladan had always been quite a bit more suspicious than himself), and Daervagor, who had appeared next to them with almost no sound to betray his passage, was distrustful by nature. But the ranger was also desperate, and he did not hesitate to seize what looked like a slightly better chance not to get them all killed.

"One or two men stay behind to guard the...?" Elrohir began to suggest, but was quickly cut off by Daervagor, who shook his head curtly.

"We don't have the time, nor the manpower," the man disagreed. "Within minutes, one of the other teams will encounter opposition that cannot be silenced with a dagger in the dark. We can't scatter even more than we already have."

"All right," Elladan whispered back, apparently unmoved by the fact that they were advancing practically blind into enemy territory. "So, left or right?"

Elrohir blinked. Daervagor, too, looked stunned for a second, but then he pushed past the two elves to be able to see the tunnel without having to crane his neck. To Elrohir, who knew the ranger well enough, it was clear that he was momentarily lost, swamped by the impossible reality of having to chose a direction randomly – and the realisation that a wrong choice might cost his own son his life.

"Left," Elrohir said before Daervagor had to make that choice that he wouldn't want to force on anybody, least of all his human friend. "There are more torches that way," he explained before either of his companions could ask. "Orcs don't need any aid to see in the dark. The torches in here are solely for the prisoners' benefit. Whatever lies down to the left, they wish their prisoners to see every bit of it, and to increase their fear even on the way there."

Next to him, Elladan clenched his teeth in a way that was almost audible. Elrohir knew that his twin's thought were heading down that same path, namely down the path of Estel being dragged down this corridor, helpless and in pain.

"Left it is then," Daervagor said, sounding relieved. The other rangers were by now assembled behind them in a tight knot, looking even tenser and, if possible, bloodthirstier than before. "We go on."

Elladan had already stepped out of the crevice before Daervagor had even completed his first sentence. Elrohir hurried after him, eyes darting over his surroundings as he hastened his pace. Elladan in this kind of mood was not only dangerous – mostly to his enemies, but also to himself far more often than Elrohir was comfortable with –, but he was also unpredictable. And unpredictable, Elrohir knew, could equal dead in this situation.

They rounded a corner, the soft sounds of the rangers moving over the rocky floor close behind them, only to find themselves face to face with yet another wall. For a moment Elrohir thought that they had encountered a dead end, but then he saw that the tunnel twisted sideways, decreasing in width. Elladan was already heading towards the narrow opening between the abruptly rising rock walls when he froze, frowned, pressed himself against the wall next to the bend, and reached out with his left hand to both draw Elrohir up to the wall next to him and gesture at the following rangers to stay back, all in less than two seconds. Elrohir had just enough time to hear the soft, jingling, shuffling sounds that set off his inner alarm system, which began screaming "_Orc!_" at him as loudly as it could.

It needn't have bothered. Before Elrohir could see more than a hint of lanky black hair appear around the bend, Elladan's hand had shot out and yanked the orc fully around the corner. Before it could mutter a single sound, Elladan's hand had closed around its throat and pushed it against the wall, lifting it off its feet and pinning it against the rocky surface with no effort at all. It dangled there like a particularly large, ugly spider, the slash-like mouth opening and closing as it tried to yell.

"Ah," Elladan said to himself, cocking his head to the side as he studied the orc like a snake studying a limping baby rabbit. "Interesting."

"Don't kill it," Daervagor ground out, pushing his way through his men to reach the two of them. "We need to..."

"I know," Elladan interrupted him, almost harshly, and turned his attention back to the orc dangling from his fist. "Where are the prisoners?" he added, eyes narrowing only the slightest bit. To the rest of the world, he looked much like someone exchanging pleasantries with a common acquaintance, but Elrohir saw the fear and panic and urgency in his eyes. And the barely concealed murder, of course.

The orc just kept on choking, and Elrohir laid a hand on his twin's arm that was keeping the orc up against the wall.

"It can't talk if it can't breathe, _gwanûr_," he told his older brother reasonably. "I'd have thought you'd know that by now."

Elladan's only answer was a vicious glare, but he loosened his grip somewhat, enough for the dangling orc to draw a shallow breath. It wasn't nearly enough to scream or yell or do anything other than glare back. Elladan only looked at it steadily through narrowed eyes, quirking an eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Gonna ... kill me ... anyway, _ilid_," the orc brought out, glaring at them fiercely. It had, Elrohir decided, an unfortunate and, distressingly enough, also correct grasp on reality.

"Maybe," Daervagor said, watching the exchange with a mixture of urgency and dark, almost evil amusement that Elrohir could relate to only too well. "Maybe not. Again: Where are the prisoners?"

The orc only stared at them with by now slightly bulging eyes, not saying a word and clearly not prepared to change that in the near future. But before the orc's features settled into its stony mask of furious, impotent defiance, Elrohir saw its eyes flicker briefly over to the right, in the direction of the bend in the tunnel. It was an unconscious move on the orc's part, surely, but they had been waiting for it, and Elrohir saw his own grim smile reflected on his twin's face.

"Thank you," Elladan said sweetly. "That's all we needed to know, really."

This time, Elrohir had the presence of mind to turn his head away, and he only sighed under his breath as another wave of dark orcish blood splashed up the side of his face. He spared just one thought for the completely unimportant fact that now his shirt was surely ruined for good and none for the orc Elladan had just killed. Before the creature's body had even hit the ground with a metallic clank, Elrohir was moving and had turned the corner. Elladan's only barely muffled curses ("Will you wait, you stupid idiot, don't you ... Elrohir! Wait, in Elbereth's name!") were floating through the air somewhere behind him, but Elrohir was in no mood to wait, or to care, for that matter. Estel might be just around the corner, and he would be damned if he waited even only one more second.

The tunnel quickly straightened out again after a few dozen feet, and so Elrohir could see the two orcs standing guard left and right of a door-like opening in the far rock wall from a long way away. They were at least twenty feet away, looking bored more than anything else. First they didn't seem to notice his sudden appearance, but one of them looked up just then and spied him, astonishment slowly beginning to lay itself over the crude orcish features.

Frankly speaking, they were in the worst possible place for them to be: Between Elrohir and what might be the holding place of his human brother.

There was a loud, rushing sound in his ears, obscuring even the sounds of the rangers trying to catch up with him. Elrohir wrenched his sword out of its scabbard, abandoning the long knife in favour of greater reach and added force, and moved forward with all possible speed, a red haze obscuring his vision ... and then suddenly Elladan was next to him, wearing a very calm expression and with both hands stretched out in front of him. The rangers, visible behind his brother's shoulder, looked torn between awe and fear, and Elrohir was surprised at seeing the orcs lying on the ground, dark blood pooling around their bodies and splashes of it covering the rock almost up to chest height.

"..rohir? Elrohir?" Elladan's voice filtered through the sound of the blood rushing through his veins that was all he could hear, and Elrohir blinked, forcing himself to loosen his grip on the hilt of his blood-spattered sword. "Put down your sword, Elrohir. They are dead. It's all right"

Nothing was all right, but still he obliged his brother. Estel and Halbarad were as good as dead, as were all of them, he had no recollection of killing these two orcs – had no recollection of these past twenty seconds or so beyond drawing his sword, really – and they might all die horrible deaths in the next minute or so ... but it didn't matter, because the guards were gone, or rather, were lying (in one case in several pieces) in a pool of their own blood.

He wouldn't call that all right, but Elladan did have a point. Things were looking up.

Behind them, the rangers had secured the corridor as well as may be. Elrohir spared them a quick look before he turned back to the dark opening in front of him. It was almost entirely dark within, and so he took a few steps to the left to wrench an ill-made, burning torch out of a fissure in the wall. He turned back in time to see Elladan and Daervagor give each other a quick look, and nodded at them as he walked over to the entrance of what looked like a larger cavern or broad tunnel. Suddenly, all eagerness and urgency was transformed into leaden hesitation, and he had to force himself to step through the rough archway.

An elf's night vision was only rivalled by an orc's, and so Elrohir had no trouble surveying the space in front of him. It was almost perfectly circular, which craggy walls and floor and a low, sloping ceiling. There was a torch jammed into a makeshift holder at the far side of the cave, but it had burned low; the only signs of life being now the occasional splutter it managed to produce now and then. There was a pair of empty manacles dangling from the ceiling, stained and rusty, and a heap of tangled tools and instruments on the floor whose purpose Elrohir refused to contemplate and which at the same time was all too easy to imagine.

But what made him stop dead in his tracks like a puppet with its strings cut was the fact that, in the middle of the cave, there was a crumpled figure lying on the floor, chained with iron manacles to a stake that had been driven into a fissure in the ground. It was a man, tall, with dark hair and light skin, turned away from the entrance and curled up as if such an action could protect him from any that would harm him. His dark clothing was in tatters, the upper body entirely exposed, and even in the very poor light Elrohir's elven eyes had no trouble tracing the chaotic pattern of welts and cuts and abrasions that seemed to cover every inch of the naked skin.

Behind him, he could feel Elladan and Daervagor stop in mid-step, the ranger almost bumping into him, and yet it was he who managed to tear himself out of their little shock-induced paralysis first, while the two Firstborn remained motionless. Without uttering a word, Daervagor side-stepped Elrohir, who blocked his way, and hurried over to the still figure on the floor with a speed that would have made a swooping winged beast of Mordor proud or envious, depending on its mood.

Daervagor fell heavily to his knees next to the stake. His hand did not shake as he slowly reached out and turned the unmoving man over, exposing more of the same wounds that covered his back amidst a jingle of rusty iron links. His hand did shake, however, as he gently pushed back the dark, tangled hair that obscured the other's bruised features. For a moment, it was entirely still, and all Elrohir could see was that _look _on Daervagor's face and his hand that remained, still shaking, pressed against one of the fallen man's cheeks.

Then the captain seemed to sag into himself, like a leaking waterskin after two hours' arduous journey, and bowed his head.

"Elbereth be praised."

The words were soft, spoken in a shaky tone of voice like the heartfelt prayer of thanks that they were, and Elrohir didn't have to ask whom they had just found. Black, bitter disappointment went through him like a storm, as fierce as the red haze of fury that had enveloped him a few minutes ago. Elrohir immediately _hated _himself for it, because Halbarad was a friend's child and and their kin and he _liked _him...

...but he was not Estel, and Elrohir could have borne losing him while Estel's death – here and now and in this way – would destroy him and his family utterly.

Elladan was already moving past him when he managed to get himself back under control, and he quickly followed his twin. He trusted Tarcil and the other rangers – who had wisely elected to hang back at the entrance of the cave until summoned in person (and probably also in writing) – to watch their backs. All thoughts were driven from his mind by a renewed wave of pure, white-hot fury when Elrohir reached his companions and saw for the first time what happened to those unfortunate enough to be captured by this particular orc horde ... and this was probably them being _nice_.

Elladan was not even trying to push Daervagor aside or to get him to let go of his son's unconscious body. They both knew it would be useless, and coming – as Legolas would put it – from the one place with Middle-earth's highest average number of fatally stubborn beings, they were more than used to working around someone. Elrohir worked completely automatically while he dug medical supplies out of the bag strapped to his hip, and tried to fight back the wave of anger and disappointment that swirled inside of him.

There was not a lot they could do here, he saw quickly, while he helped Elladan bandage the deepest cuts. At least some of those cuts would be infected, he knew that, and the boy was almost certainly also struggling with dehydration and deep shock. But other than bandaging the worst ones there was little they could do to help him except to try and get him out of here as quickly as possible. There was some anomalous movement on the lower left side of his chest, Elrohir saw as his brother gently pressed down on various particularly bruised areas of Halbarad's torso. From the shape and location of the bruises, he guessed there were at least two broken ribs. But the bruises were also older, the edges already a yellowish colour, and Halbarad's continued survival suggested that they had not pierced anything vital.

Still, carrying the boy out of here could very well cause him internal injuries and ultimately his death, but in Elrohir's eyes that was a risk well worth the taking. If faced with a choice of almost certain death in an orc cave and only slightly probable death outside said orc cave, he knew which one he'd take.

Daervagor seemed oblivious to the choices before them. Over the past minute, prompted by the gentle pressure of two of the most stubborn creatures on the face of all of Arda, he had shifted slightly, and was now kneeling to Elrohir's right, slightly more out of the way. He had bedded his son's head on his lap, and was wholly consumed in what looked like mentally projecting his need for Halbarad to open his eyes. Seeing that Elladan had trouble assessing the wounds to the young man's chest with his hands still chained in front of him, and also seeing that Daervagor was in a world of his own, Elrohir handed his twin a last roll of finely woven linen – the fifth, he noticed absently – and turned his head towards the entrance of the cave.

The rangers were still there, even though he couldn't see all of them; some must have taken up positions in the tunnel and beyond, which served to comfort Elrohir the tiniest bit. He spotted Tarcil, who was only now poking his head into the cave, open worry on his face.

"Do you have a lockpick? Or a long, preferably straight piece of metal?" he addressed the young ranger.

Tarcil gawked at him. Elrohir frowned. Maybe Legolas was right, and the familiarity and competence with picking locks of all shapes and sizes that most warriors in Rivendell possessed was not exactly ... normal, which was of course Annorathil's fault.

Tarcil needed just a second to understand what Elrohir was aiming at, and reached almost immediately for one of the pouches hanging on his belt.

"I have a thick bronze needle for mending leather jerkins. The tip is very blunt by now, but..."

"That's perfect," Elrohir told him. "Give it to me, please."

Tarcil was already beside him and was offering him the promised tool as he sank to his knees next to him. He blanched as he saw Halbarad's body and quickly averted his eyes, fixing his gaze on Elrohir's hands as the elf took the pin and began to work on the manacles around Halbarad's wrists.

"We have to leave, my lord, and quickly," he said. "There is yelling and shouting coming from the direction of the main cave. Aravir says that in a matter of minutes we'll be neck-deep in orcs, if he knows his orc caves at all, and he's been in enough of them to know what he's talking about."

Aravir was a tall, solemn man of about eighty-five, with a long scar running down the side of his face. He had been in Daervagor's company for the past thirty years at least, and with the Rangers for twenty more before that. Elrohir knew him, and also knew how he'd got that scar, and therefore had no doubts at all that he could judge the situation correctly.

"We have to get him out of here first," he told the young man, smiling thinly as the lock gave a satisfying click and opened. He opened the heavy manacles, revealing grievously abraded and swollen flesh. Somehow, the sight served to fuel his fury, even more than the rest of the injuries had, because it was so easy to imagine Halbarad struggling to get free through all that had been done to him.

Elladan looked up, even while his hands were deftly finishing tying a bandage.

"We can't do anything more here. We might kill him getting him out of here, but..."

"Damned if we do, damned if we don't."

Elrohir looked at his twin, startled. He hadn't expected anything coherent out of Daervagor in the near future, who looked up now, eyes fairly burning in his calm face.

"Yes," Elladan admitted.

"Then we do it. Now," Daervagor decided. "Someone takes him back, the rest of us keep on going." Elrohir blinked, and even though he was almost sure that Daervagor hadn't seen it, the man reacted to his openly displayed surprise by turning towards him with the speed of a startled snake. "We still have to find Estel. Just because ... we can't ... we have to find him."

"But sir, there is no way around the main cavern," Tarcil spoke first. "Even if we managed to get Halbarad back to the exit tunnel, there is no way we could further penetrate the cave if..."

"We'll deal with that when it happens," Daervagor cut the younger man off. "I don't care if we..."

He stopped in mid-sentence, all colour suddenly draining from his face. Elrohir could sympathise, because he would have reacted in just the same way if he had been human, a millennium younger or not been through quite so many harrowing experiences. Said experiences weren't even important right now, because even the most naïve, inexperienced or downright stupid person would have recognised the sound of a score of orcs storming noisily up a passage.

Elrohir looked down at Halbarad, feeling regret without any hint of bitterness at all. He would very much have liked to get at least one member of his extended family out of this alive.

Surprisingly enough, it was Tarcil who broke the half-shocked, half-resigned silence first as they all surged to their feet and wrenched out an impressive assortment of weapons.

"Could be worse, couldn't it?" the young man asked, as he tried to draw both a sword and a long dagger at once. "No one would have wanted to go back anyway."  
**  
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The larger part of Aragorn, the one only concerned with the pulsing agony that consumed his body and mind, was convinced that he wouldn't live through the night.

The smaller part of him, still capable of somewhat rational thought, hoped with all the energy he still possessed that the larger part was right.

He still didn't want to die, no matter what Skagrosh had done to him over the past few days. No matter how terrible the pain and humiliation, no matter that all there was in his future was more of the same or worse, he still didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave Halbarad alone in this Valar-forsaken cave, not him who was not only highly likeable but also the only living blood-relative of his whom he'd met and with whom he was actually on speaking terms. Almost as important, though, was the thought that, if he died, if he _broke_, then Skagrosh would have won. There was nothing he would give Skagrosh willingly and without a fight.

But even more important than that was the knowledge that he very well _might _break. A few more days of this, and – provided his continued survival – he might very well tell them everything they wanted to hear. Skagrosh just didn't know which questions to ask, but when the Master returned, _he _would know what he wanted to hear. And Aragorn wasn't completely sure that he would be able to hold his tongue for as long as it took him to finally die, no matter how terrible the consequences.

No, death – and even a death like this – was better than to be dragged to Mordor in chains and thrown down at the foot of Sauron's throne. _Any _kind of death was better than that.

Aragorn's attention was briefly arrested by Mitheleth, who leisurely crossed his cell on the way back to his burrow. The fact that he had named the rat living in a crevice somewhere at the back of his cell was probably not a very good thing, medically speaking. It most likely said quite a lot about his state of mind, or rather the fragmentation thereof.

Then again, Mitheleth was a nice enough rat. His coat was nice, glossy and light-grey, and whenever the animal passed his crumpled figure, he quivered his whiskers at him in a very intelligent manner. Mitheleth was also, with the notable exception of Halbarad, the only living creature in this cave who didn't seem to want to hurt, kill or eat him. Well, he wasn't completely sure about the last part, of course, but then again, Mitheleth _was _a rat. He certainly wouldn't blame him for an exploratory nibble or two.

Mitheleth would have to hurry, though. He somehow had the feeling that the orcs' frequent and very annoying references to how they were looking forwards to tearing the flesh from his bones were more than empty and metaphorical phrases. But it wouldn't matter in the end. Even if he wasn't right and he would last for another ten hours, or twenty, or, Valar forbid, even longer, he would most likely die here, in this cave. What happened to his body after that was a question of only sentimental value.

Now that he thought about it, though, he found it strange that they _had _found the bodies of the other rangers who had been captured – and killed – before him. They had been terribly mutilated, yes, bearing all the signs of the brutality that Skagrosh and his cronies liked to inflict on their victims, but they had been found, and could then be given proper burials. It would have been much, much easier to just let the horde deal with them, and less dangerous, too. No matter how good Skagrosh and the others were at hiding their tracks, they wouldn't relish having to leave the safety of their caves and holes to lug some bodies around that they might just as well share amongst themselves...

Aragorn jumped as he heard heavy orcish footsteps just outside his cell, or would have jumped if he'd retained any kind of energy for that sort of thing. The way things were, he didn't even have the strength to move his uninjured leg, let alone his hands that were chained above his head. For a moment he feared that it was time again, that Skagrosh had become impatient and had sent for him again. A few days ago, a tiny part of him would have managed to draw some satisfaction from the fact that they had decided to take him and not Halbarad, but the pain of the last few days had obliterated all such selfless notions, much to his shame.

Not that it would have mattered right now, of course, since Halbarad hadn't answered his whispered calls and questions for several hours at least. That left two possibilities: That he had been taken while he himself had still been unconscious, just after he had been returned to his cell, or that it was the younger man who was unconscious.

Aragorn hoped very much that the latter was the case. Skagrosh had caught up now and knew that the only thing that he really couldn't bear was seeing Halbarad be hurt, and he would be damned if he gave the orc any more opportunities to glean satisfaction from his helpless desperation in addition to the agony the orc inflicted on him so regularly.

But it wasn't Skagrosh sending for one of his toys, as he so much liked to call them, but rather the usual changing of the guard. In the beginning the sounds of the orcs grunting at each other and clanking up and down the hallway had both fascinated and horrified him, but now he only listened with mute, numb resignation.

He couldn't remember if he'd ever really told his brothers how much he loved them, their stupid over-protectiveness notwithstanding. They knew it, he was sure of that, just like their father knew, but he should have _said _it, at least sometimes. This would be terrible for them, and they would blame themselves for his – their – deaths, even though they couldn't have changed anything. That knowledge was almost as bad as the fact that he was very much and painfully aware of the fact that, if he died now, so did the line of the kings. In the south, the House of Anárion had ended a long time ago, and with his end, he would also seal the end of the line of Isildur.

Never before had the knowledge that he was the last of his House weighed so terribly on his mind, no matter how many times he had already been close to joining his ancestors in the Halls of Mandos. All those other times, it had at least been personal, but here ... well, here his death would not only grant his enemies satisfaction, it would grant them _victory_, if they knew it or not.

Valar, but that thought was hard to stomach.

That smaller, still rational part of him, which was getting weaker by the hour, was still pondering this and several similarly depressing thoughts when ... well, _something _happened.

He wasn't sure what was happening, or even to whom. All he would be able to say later was that it was like a huge wave of sound washing through the twisted, maze-like cave system, or the rumble of far-off thunder that closed the distance between the horizon and his position in a second.

For a long time, his addled brain couldn't make more sense of it than that. The sounds had appeared so suddenly that he was at a loss to explain them, even in the half-formulated words and concepts that were all he was capable of at the moment, but then, when the clashing of metal and orcish shrieks became steadily louder and drew closer, he finally understood what was going on.

It was a fight. It was not the kind of fight he had been witnessing almost daily here; orcs liked hitting each other almost as much as they liked hitting other people. No, it was ... a battle, a battle that was drawing steadily closer, if he was any judge at all.

It was – had to be – a _rescue_. It had to be the twins doing what Glorfindel had taught them and what they did best, namely slaughtering orcs and looking discreetly heroic.

Aragorn didn't even have the strength to feel relieved, or hopeful, or elated, or any of the other things he knew he should feel. The emotions just couldn't manifest, because all those hopes were crushed by the oppressing, terrible certainty that Skagrosh would never allow him to be rescued in any form, shape or condition. Before the orc captain allowed his 'toy' to be taken from him, and by the hated elves at that, he would kill him.

For the first time in what felt like months, Aragorn felt his lips stretch into a thin smile, no matter how much it hurt. If things were just half as chaotic as they sounded out there, Skagrosh wouldn't have time to draw it out any longer than absolutely necessary. He might die quickly after all.

All such hopes died a quick death when the noise outside his cell multiplied. After a short, yelled conversation in Black Speech (Aragorn still hadn't stopped wondering how it had been possible for such a hideous language to evolve), sudden light poured into the small space as three orcs, one of them carrying a torch, rushed into his cell. Behind him, Aragorn could hear a small, indignant squeak as Mitheleth scrabbled for cover, and felt a dreamy, disconnected desire to do the same.

His eyes, long deprived of bright light except for when he was being dragged off to be tortured some more, had no chance to get used to the sudden illumination. The torch was thrust into a fissure in the wall and left there, and Aragorn couldn't completely suppress a cry of pain as two of the orcs seized him, unhooked the chains connecting him to the wall behind him, and dragged him to his feet. The sudden change of position was too unexpected and too brutally executed for his weakened body to bear, and the pain in his mangled thigh alone was bad enough for him to almost pass out.

Then the orcs started moving, through the door and into the corridor, and Aragorn stopped thinking altogether, because one of the orcs grasped him by the arm, closing its metal-gloved hand around his shackled, skinned and by now definitely infected arm. The world disappeared amidst an onslaught of agony that would have sent him to the ground, if he'd not been held quite so firmly. By the time he could string two more or less coherent thoughts together, they had left his cell behind them and were somewhere else, in a part of the cave system he hadn't seen previously. The sounds of fighting were still audible behind them, rising and falling chaotically, and despite his best attempts to stop it Aragorn felt how the first, tiny spark of raw, unguarded _hope _was born inside of him.

He might survive the night after all, he thought, and for the first time since this nightmare had begun the thought did not frighten him. He might see his brothers again, and Legolas and that spider-loving excuse for a wood-elf, Celylith. He might see his father again, and Glorfindel and Erestor and Isál and Elvynd, and his _home_. He might...

...die right here and now, he amended, because in this moment Skagrosh joined his three guards and him, followed by at least half a dozen orcs. Aragorn's eyesight was blurry and obscured by so many bright spots dancing across it, but even now he had no trouble seeing that these were the élite of Skagrosh's troop, if one could call them that. They were scarred, burly orcs that might have about fifteen teeth between them, but enough viciousness and cunning to supply the army of a particularly large and evil-minded empire for half a century. They could hold off even a group of elves long enough for Skagrosh to kill him in an inventive manner.

_A elenath Elbereth_, he thought, the first hints of long-fought desperation sending hot tendrils throughout his heart and mind, replacing the tentative hope he had allowed to grow there. He really was going to die.

"Thank the Eye," Skagrosh ground out as he strode over to them, the other orcs in tow. "I'm mighty glad to see you, my little _tark_. Thought they wouldn't get to you in time. Just imagine your friends would disturb our fun! Too bad, that would be, don't ya agree?"

The orc captain cocked his head to the side as he stopped in front of his prisoner and studied him, while behind him the rest of the orcs shifted and muttered, casting nervous looks about them and gripping their naked weapons tightly at every distant crash and clank. Aragorn bore the scrutiny with the good grace that only elven relatives or nearly-debilitating head wounds could grant you, and even managed to twist his mouth into the weak parody of a small, wry smile, because this was _funny_. His captors looking ready to run, in their own cave, because they were being attacked by – and this was the best part – a vastly outnumbered group of rangers? Even if Daervagor had found a way to spontaneously multiply his forces – and Aragorn doubted that even the captain could have managed that –, they would still be outnumbered almost two to one. His smile grew the tiniest bit. Valar, but it was bloody _hilarious_.

Clearly, Skagrosh didn't agree. Aragorn hardly felt the blow that rocked his head to the side, or the blood that began to drip down from a re-opened cut on his brow. His body was far beyond such trivial things and had stopped registering all but the most important sources of pain. Aragorn knew he should be frightened by this, knew that he had been frightened by it even an hour ago, but now he did not care. He felt as if he had been hanging in suspense from a fraying rope above a vast abyss for ages, dangling helplessly and revolving around his own axis. Now the rope had been cut and he was falling, _and he did not care at all_. He would most likely die here, tonight, but at least the waiting was over. Halbarad wasn't here and was maybe, just maybe, safe, and neither of them would have to betray their people. The Master wouldn't get his hands on him or be able to hand him over to Sauron, and that, right there, was victory.

"What, you think that's funny, boy?" Skagrosh growled, and dug his fingers into the red, raw and bloody mess that was his left side. That pain did register, and Aragorn didn't even try to keep back the cry of pain that he knew he would be helpless to suppress. "I told you before and I'm gonna tell you now: I ain't gonna leave you to them. If they corner us, I'll rip out your heart and let you bleed out at their feet, even if that's the last thing I ever do."

Against all probability and, most likely, reason, Aragorn only laughed at that. Most of the pain was far away now, not really having caught up with him yet on his mad hurtle towards the ground, and he was floating. The laugh was hoarse and almost inaudible, but it was his and it was genuine, and for the first time since laying eyes on the orc captain Aragorn was unafraid.

"I know," he gasped, as Skagrosh's grip tightened and some of that pain resurfaced. "Know that ... very well."

The orc's yellow eyes narrowed, and for the moment the two of them were alone, away from the fast-approaching sounds of fighting or the other orcs that were silently urging their leader to just kill the _tark _and get out of here.

"You want to die, pretty boy? Is that it? Come that far, have we? I knew I'd get to that little spark inside of you, knew I'd reach it and snuff it out."

The smaller part of Aragorn, the rational part, flashed back to the past days, to what Skagrosh had done to him and Halbarad while wearing that very same, thrice-cursed smile, but the larger part shouldered it aside and told it in a very firm voice that it didn't intend to spend its last minutes showing this sadistic piece of scum any kind of weakness at all. If the battered smile was a little less genuine and a little more set than a moment ago, Skagrosh hopefully didn't notice.

"I don't ... want to die," he told the orc, voice as firm as he could make it. "If they ... find us, we will both ... die."

"And you're happy about that? What a strange little rat you are," Skagrosh persisted, idly tracing the cuts on his prisoner's face with a sharp, pointy claw.

"I want to live," Aragorn said, trying not to let it show how much it was actually true. "But ... much, much more than that I ... I want to see you dead."

For a moment, it seemed to Aragorn as if their surroundings held their collective breaths. He didn't. He knew how Skagrosh reacted to any kind of defiance, but his body seemed to be fading around the edges, a sensation that grew stronger with every passing second, and really, what could the orc do that he hadn't done already?

Under different circumstances, Skagrosh might have laughed, one of his derogatory, deeply amused laughs that Aragorn was sure would stalk his dreams for the rest of his life, should he somehow live through the next half-hour, which looked more unlikely by the second. Right now, the sounds of the battle were too loud, or too disturbing, for the orc to do anything but snarl at him. Maybe his words had been too close to the truth, Aragorn thought dazedly as he was shaken, like a rag doll, by a rather angry-looking Skagrosh. The orc seemed used to victims who, beneath it all, were terrified, just as he had been since the first time he had laid eyes on him. To be faced with someone who, beyond the wish that his torturer die an exceedingly painful death, simply did not care about anything anymore seemed to rattle him.

Good, Aragorn thought, watching the furious face of the orc. Being rattled clearly made Skagrosh angry, and angry people made mistakes. Then again, angry people also lashed out at others, most notably orcs who had stupid, reckless rangers in their oh-so-literal grasp.

Said orc took the opportunity to shake him some more, and then closed his hand around his upper arm, about the only part of him that was only heavily bruised.

"Still feisty, eh?" the orc asked, largely rhetorically in Aragorn's opinion, while he dragged him down the corridor, to the satisfied grunts of the following goblins. "Thought I'd beaten that out of ya, _tark_."

Aragorn had thought so, too, and despite the reawakened pain pulsing up and down his body he was glad of it. What good would it do him if he survived this only to find that he had lost his ability to annoy the twins? Any witty reply that he might have made – not that one came to mind right now – was lost in the mad scramble down the passage and the fight not to lose his footing. There was a red haze creeping across his vision, but even despite this he could see the nervousness bordering on fear on the face of the orcs around him and hear the urgency in their voices as they yelled at each other in Orcish. It sent a jolt of such fierce, gratifying elation through him that it gave him the strength to set one foot in front of the other.

They passed the darkly yawning entrance to another tunnel and hurried on, but not before it admitted a gust of cold air and the even colder sound of clashing metal and barely muffled cries and curses. It sounded nearer than before, but Aragorn had been in enough caves in his life to know that that meant precious little. The chaotic, twisting layout could warp sounds and voices in ways that made distance and direction very hard to judge indeed, and to rely on the accuracy of one's hearing was a quick way to misdirection. The sound was sufficient, however, to deepen the nervousness of the orcs, and Skagrosh took the next corner a little too fast, definitely not caring too much about how his captive fared. Aragorn's right leg scraped against either the wall or a particularly rock-like part of one of the orcs' armour, and the contact – not too firm at all – was enough to bathe Aragorn's world in white fire. There was a faint, ghost-like scream of pain ringing in his ears that he knew was his, but he didn't care, for the agony was all-encompassing.

He barely felt something run down his injured leg, either fresh blood or – which was more likely – pus that had been accumulating in the infected bite wound for some time now. The world around him moved yet another bit further away from him, and not even the meaning of this pain, and the pus, bothered him much anymore, even though he knew very well that he would most likely loose his leg, should he somehow survive this night. Warg bites were prone to infection and disease, even with elven treatments and medicines, and warg bites that had remained untreated ... well. The less said the better.

When he had woken up, after his little encounter with Skagrosh's pet warg, that thought had scared him, so very, very much that he had had to force himself not to start screaming out loud in sheer, angry desperation. But he had soon lost the strength for anger, and then the fever, which had been burning low within him for some time now, had set in with a vengeance. He had stopped caring about anything at all, except for the insistent, desperate wish for a knife so he could cut the bloody thing off himself so it would just stop _hurting_ so.

He barely felt anything for the next minutes, drifting in that half-conscious stupor of his, but then he felt how he was jerked to a stop. There was the sense of ... open space ... around him, almost unfamiliar after so many days of being in so tightly enclosed spaces, enough to prompt him to try and get his uncooperative eyes to co-operate. Since Skagrosh's hand, clamped around his forearm, was the only thing keeping him upright at the moment, it took some time, but finally he managed to raise his head slightly and give his surroundings the most inquisitive glance he could manage at the moment. There was no light to speak of, but Halbarad's gloomy prediction from a few days ago had come true and his eyes had long since become accustomed to the darkness. He had no trouble seeing, and so at first he thought that the fever had finally spiked and he was hallucinating, something he had both been hoping for and dreading for a while now.

They were in a medium-sized cave, with a high, pockmarked ceiling and walls that were just as uneven. There were at least four more entrances to tunnels or caves on their side of the cavern, all yawning darkly and silently like the mouths of sleeping predators. What truly stunned Aragorn, however, was the lake that occupied most of the space. On a little area on their side some sand had accumulated on the shore, reddish-yellow and looking to Aragorn's fevered eyes like soft, powdery snow. The other sides of the lake either met the rocky ground, like water lapping against the edges of a bowl, or the abruptly rising stone walls that the water had softened to smoothness at the bottom. It was impossible to gauge the depth of the water; the surface was as smooth and still as polished, black marble.

Under any other circumstances, Aragorn would have thought it a beautiful, peaceful sight, even in the dark. Now, however, he only saw the four dark openings to his right, and the possibility of Skagrosh escaping after all – with him.

Even while he was still staring at the lake, entranced by the still surface that almost looked like a draped length of fabric, the orcs around him looked about them suspiciously, scanning the lake and the walls and particularly the four dark tunnels. They looked as if they expected a ranger to suddenly pop out from behind every small rock, which would have amused Aragorn greatly had he been in the state of mind to truly appreciate it.

"Where're the others?" one of them asked, gesturing with his unsheathed weapon. Aragorn slowly tried to focus on him, and fuzzily realised that he knew that sword – it was the one Lhanton had given him just before Serothlain and him had made their escape. He felt a sudden pang of rather irrational anger that he would end up breaking his word – there was almost no chance that he would be able to give that sword back to its rightful owner. "At least Grashók shoulda been here by now."

Skagrosh shrugged nonchalantly. It was clear that he had no great interest in where Grashók was and what might be happening to him right now. Remembering that Grashók had been the orc to drag him into this pit in the first place, the one who had got into a fight with Skagrosh right away, Aragorn understood why.

"Who knows?" the orc captain ground out. "If he ain't here, it's no problem of mine. We ain't waiting."

"Someone should be here," another orc insisted. The multitude of metal piercings adorning its face twisted its nervous expression into something closely resembling a grin. "Then, there's other ways outta here."

"True," Skagrosh agreed easily. "None this good, though. No, lads, we're going." He looked at Aragorn, leering, and saw something in his captive's eyes, either his barely concealed hope for rescue or his desire for him to die in a fire, and his expression changed to a snarl. "And I ain't leaving you here, worm. I'm not takin' any chances, not with you. Don't know why I bother, though; you're not gonna survive tonight no matter what. "

Aragorn realistically couldn't disagree with that. It seemed that neither could the other orcs.

"Maybe Grashók got the other _tark_," the orc from before offered, eyeing Aragorn in a way that very clearly said that it had calculated the odds of him not hindering their escape and had come to a unfavourable conclusion. "We won't need him then."

"Not a chance," the formerly optimistic orc disagreed, frowning at Lhanton's sword as if it was responsible for their predicament. "I was in the main cave when the fightin' started. They'd already got to him when they were first spotted, damn their eyes."

Aragorn didn't have the strength for a visible reaction, but inwardly he hardly could stop from laughing. They – whoever "they" were – had found Halbarad. Even if his cousin was dying, this was so much better than to perish in this orc hole, surrounded by enemies and alone.

"No, them's come up from the lower entrance," another orc spoke up, shaking its head. "I saw them myself coming up the tunnel. Almost lost an eye to one of their throwing knives before I could duck back. Didn't stick around after that."

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Skagrosh bellowed, shaking Aragorn's arm for emphasis. Aragorn had just enough energy left to feel the unfairness of being hurt even more because Skagrosh was displeased with his own men. "We're not waiting for anyone. The others know where to go when they get outta here, and I sent at least two groups to other exits. I'm not sticking around and waiting for the _tarks _to find us. Not when we've just got this one little toy here to give to the Master."

He grinned down at his prisoner.

"Oh no, my little _tark_, don't you worry," he told Aragorn, beginning to drag him towards the tunnel on the far left. The other orcs fanned out around them, watching their surroundings and especially the tunnel they had just stepped out of with an intensity that bordered on paranoia. "I wouldn't leave you here. You're comin' with us."

The sheer panic that these words awoke inside of the young ranger had barely time to grow, because even with his fading hearing he just then detected a faint sound that he couldn't identify. t was a small noise, a whisper of metal against something soft, and Aragorn was only able to make sense of it when the orcs had already closed up and whirled around to face the source: It was the sound of a metal knife or sword being drawn out of a leather-padded sheath.

And then Aragorn was finally convinced that he had started to hallucinate for real, because the sound was followed by a voice he had never expected to hear again, at least not in this life.

"Over my dead body." There was a pause, in which Aragorn tried to channel all his strength into his neck in order to raise his head that felt like it weighed at least fifty pounds. He managed it just in time to see the small, thoroughly evil smile that graced the face of the speaker as he went on, "On second thought, make that _your _dead body."

The conviction that he must be hallucinating wavered a bit, while Aragorn only stared at the apparition in front of him. True, the chances of him seeing what he thought he saw were rather small, but – really, if he was hallucinating Legolas, why in the name of Elbereth herself wouldn't he hallucinate him in a slightly less deadly mood?

The elated feeling from earlier intensified, and if he'd had the strength, Aragorn would have laughed. This was better than finally falling, this was like flying, flying without ever touching the ground.

All the while, Legolas-who-really-couldn't-be-here stood at the mouth of the tunnel directly in front of them, the one immediately adjacent to the one Skagrosh and the others had been heading for. The faint light that his elven body emitted, the light he must have consciously suppressed until now, was enough to illuminate the faint figures of the handful of rangers surrounding him – and the smile that was still adorning his lips. There was no smile in his eyes, though. Dark with rage, they promised immediate death to all who crossed him.

Feeling how his head, once again too heavy for his neck, began to sink back onto his chest, Aragorn found that he was quite all right with that.

Next to him, Skagrosh growled something unintelligible in Black Speech, and a moment later Aragorn found himself jerked sideways, in front of the orc with an armoured forearm pressing firmly against his bruised throat. Even under normal circumstances, this would have seriously impeded his breathing, but now it was almost enough to make him lose consciousness instantly.

Aragorn couldn't see the orc's face, but he'd known him long enough now (Valar, _how _long!) to know that he would either be leering down at him or smirk at the apparitions (because they had to be apparitions).

"Clever," Skagrosh said calmly, apparently oblivious to his own men and the rangers, both of which were bristling with weapons and all but twitching in a very clear desire to start killing each other. Aragorn, who was used to the very un-orcish qualities that this orc possessed, had long ceased wondering how he had become leader of this particular orc horde. "Usin' the others as a distraction. Clever little elf, you."

"I wish I could return the compliment."

There was ice in Hallucination-Legolas' voice. Next to him stood a rather convincing dream-version of Haldar, grasping a sword and with murder in his eyes. That was rather strange indeed, Aragorn thought, because while he liked Haldar, he wouldn't have thought he would hallucinate him. Then again, apparently he was also hallucinating Lhanton and ... Torthagyl? Well, now that was really too much. He didn't even _like _the man.

Even while his thoughts became increasingly frayed and disjointed, Aragorn still could imagine the smirk on Skagrosh's face. He _liked _smirking, Aragorn thought acidly, especially when he had something or someone squirming helplessly in his grasp.

"You go back the way you came, _ilid_," the orc said in a silky-smooth tone of voice. "And we'll be on our way. And no one gets hurt too much."

Hallucination-Legolas didn't even grace that with a reply. Dream-Haldar, however, glared daggers at the orc, and every single imaginary ranger was taking a step forward, even though Aragorn was more than willing to admit that he might have made up that last part. Hallucinations could be tricky like that.

"You will go nowhere, orc," Hallucination-Legolas said through gritted teeth. "And, trust me on this: _All _of you will get hurt."

"Then so will your little friend," Skagrosh said, emphasising his point by pressing his forearm more firmly against Aragorn's throat, causing him to stark choking. "Back. Away."

"No," Dream-Haldar said, his voice cold and hard as stone. "Never. Give him up, and we might let you go."

"What, him?" Skagrosh asked in mock surprise, even as the orcs around him tensed. "Not worth botherin' about. Won't live to see another sunrise."

This made Hallucination-Legolas' eyebrows draw together in a way that, in Real-Legolas, either heralded an epic fight with his father or equally epic slaughter, sometimes at the same time. His twin daggers were already in his tightly clenched fists, gleaming in the sparse light in a way that almost blinded Aragorn.

"Then he will die among friends," he said with the kind of forced calmness that even Aragorn, as close to unconsciousness as he was, recognised as a bad sign for anybody on the wrong end of his knives. "You will not take him anywhere. Let him go."

"No." Skagrosh stood his ground. He relaxed his grip on Aragorn somewhat, allowing him to breathe a bit more easily, and added, bringing his face even closer to his captive's, "Come now, little _tark_. Tell them how much you want them to be reasonable."

Aragorn wasn't about to speak to apparitions, no matter how much they looked like Legolas. And even though his throat felt as if it had swollen shut completely, and he had barely enough strength to even open his mouth, he minutely turned his head to the side and just caught a glimpse of the orc's expression, a mixture of bravado, true enjoyment and even a bit of well-hidden, faint fear.

"Told you ... only ... thing ... I want ... is ... you ... dead."

Strictly speaking, this wasn't true, because he wanted quite a few things at the moment, prominently among them to finally get it over with and lose consciousness so he could die in peace. Skagrosh, of course, wasn't about to let him have any kind of peace at all, even though he had acquired a rather fetching, if slightly distracting, gleaming sort of aura. It was probably yet more rock-solid medical proof that he was very, very badly off, but he couldn't remember any of his training anyway and so decided that it didn't matter.

Skagrosh, maybe sensing that any kind of violent reaction would not be received well at all, simply resumed his grip on his captive, cutting off Aragorn's air once again. Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn could see the imaginary Legolas stiffen, eyebrows drawing together even further, and if he hadn't been in the process of being held hostage and therefore been absolved of all guilt, he would have felt decidedly apprehensive, illusion or no illusion.

There was a leaden silence while both groups just stared at each other, the sound of the battle rising and ebbing in the background. Outwardly, this didn't seem to faze Skagrosh, who only looked at the assembled, (unreal) rangers in front of him, and a slow, dark smile began to spread over his face. "This ain't gonna end good for no one, right?"

"No," Dream-Haldar agreed soberly, the hand that wasn't gripping his sword inching towards the long knife at his waist. "Not at all."

"Just what I thought," replied Skagrosh, still calm. This time, Aragorn could really see the orc's grin out of the corner of his eye as he leaned closer, so close that he could feel Skagrosh's dark hair touch the side of his face. "No matter what happens, my pretty little friend, there's two things you oughta remember," he whispered, so softly that Aragorn could hardly understand him. "One, how sweetly you begged me to stop, long before tonight, and two, that it ain't over yet, not by a long shot. I will finish you off, mark me words, and you'll be begging me again before I'm done with you."

Distant from all this as he was, something still froze inside of Aragorn at that, maybe what little defiance he had still managed to uphold until now. He _knew _Skagrosh, knew him far better than he had ever wanted to know an orc. He would do just as he'd promised and worse, too, and he could only too well imagine all the things the orc captain hadn't got the chance to do to him yet. Skagrosh was by no means lacking imagination.

Aragorn wasn't the only one who'd reacted to the Skagrosh's whispered words. While the rangers' hearing had not been keen enough to pick up the low words, Hallucination-Legolas seemed to have heard him perfectly. Aragorn was just very, very fuzzily commending his imagination for accuracy when there was this strange sound, reminding him of a cornered wolf who'd finally had enough and had decided to lash out. Having grown up with a couple of mischievous elves, he was more than used to elven speed, and so he did see Legolas' hand move in a very blurry way before the elf tossed one of his long daggers directly at him, or that was what it looked like to him.

This was really a bit much for a hallucination, he decided.

Skagrosh, even though he had – presumably – not grown up with elves, had apparently been waiting for it as well. Before Legolas had even started moving, the orc had sprung into motion, twisting to the left and back, into the direction of the tunnel he had tried to reach earlier. The knife hurtled past his ear with a whistling sound, which was the last thing Aragorn heard with any clarity at all. After that, there was a loud cacophony of shouts and clashing metal and the occasional grunt of pain. Aragorn felt himself being pulled to the side by a cursing Skagrosh, but then there was some dark shape in front of them, and a long, gleaming sword almost took his ear off.

The orc captain growled and shoved him aside, and Aragorn stumbled back blindly, his body protesting loudly that this was the final straw. He hit another orc, who shrieked in a way that Aragorn found rather unnecessary, and his left side connected with a part of its armour. The rest of the fight disappeared in white-hot pain, and Aragorn hardly noticed as the orc stumbled backwards further, dragging him with it.

What he did notice, however, was when they pitched over the edge and into the dark waters of the underground lake.  
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**TBC...  
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_Yestarë (Quenya) - 'First-day' , the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March._  
_gwanûr (Sindarin) - (twin) brother_  
_ada (S.) - father (daddy)_  
_gwanûr dithen (S.) - little (twin) brother_  
_dúnadan (S.) - 'Man of the West', ranger_  
_mellon nín (S.) - my friend_  
_ilid (Black Speech) - *elf (-man), *elves_  
_A elenath Elbereth (S.) - By Elbereth's stars_  
_tark (B.S.) - Man of Gondor/of Númenórean heritage_

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**_**Oh, come on, you didn't really expect anything BUT a cliffhanger, did you? That's the one thing I can still do... *g* But don't you worry, I already have the next chapter written and ready to go. Which doesn't mean that I will update immediately, but I COULD. That's something, right? *g* So, there will be more blood, rather descriptive scenes of What Happens When You Piss Off Millennia Old Elf Lords, and poor Haldar being long-suffering. And they might even get to finish the Timely And Ingenious Rescue****! It doesn't really work as advertised, but well. What ever does in the Angle? As always, reviews are appreciated and cherished. Cheers!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**Since it's been so long since the last post, I will have to skip the by now traditional email in which I reply to reviews. But I thank all of you very much – without the occasional "Where the H*** are you, woman?", I doubt this chapter would ever have seen the light of day. And please remember, for the next time, that if you wish to be included in said group email, to make sure that you either leave an email address if you're reviewing anonymously (and put it in a way that won't delete), or that you have a working email address listed on your profile page. Thanks!**

**Again, I thank you for your reviews, prodding and your incredible patience. I hope you liked this chapter, and that it – in some small way – did make up for the rather long wait of a year or two. No? Ah well, I hadn't really thought so, either. *g***


	28. Lifeline

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Turns out keeping a regular update schedule isn't as easy as it sounds. Maybe it is when you are well-organised, but I am not. So I am a little ... well, let's call it scatterbrained sometimes, why don't we? Disorganised, even. Long story short, I went to my mother's place in Portugal for almost eight weeks and ... well, kind of forgot the story. How is that possible, you ask? Well, it IS eminently possible if you have a notebook, a netbook, and use no synchronising software of any kind. So, what I had was the old version which included part of this chapter, but only up to the end of the first scene. I just forgot to copy the actual version onto my netbook. Yes, I'm an idiot.  
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**So, I did have a nice time, but I felt guilty the entire time because I knew I'd left you guys hanging. I really wanted to update before I left in the first place, but as always, I just didn't have the time with having to dash here and there before my departure. I got back from Portugal two days ago, and since I'll be leaving again for five weeks this Sunday, I am updating now. Immediately! Before something else goes wrong! I will not be thwarted!*looks at sky for any sign of imminent divine retribution* All right, looks clear so far. **

**And honestly, I have no idea how other people juggle things like a doctoral thesis, a job, another job and long periods abroad AND writing FF. I know that they do, I just don't know how. So yes, I do apologise for my tardiness, but to be perfectly honest: If RL gets in the way, it's just the tiniest bit more important. Because, deadlines set by my Ph.D. supervisor? Unfortunately more important than updating. If I had the choice, it would be the other way round, but it really isn't. So "a regular updating schedule" will have to mean once every couple of months or so or maybe once a month if it's really going well, sorry.  
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**Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, the Timely And Ingenious Rescue****. It's not only underway, but it's actually arrived! Not sure anybody expected that at this point... Definitely not the numerous rangers that still can't quite believe that they're not dead yet, because, let's face it, it's a very elven kind of rescue, namely of the Storm In And Be Wrathful And Kill Lots of People variety. Apart from that, Legolas uncovers a Noldorin conspiracy, the twins do geometry, our favourite half-Rehír make an appearance and annoy Elladan simply by existing, Haldar is generally frazzled, and even some rangers don't like to see blood. This turns out to be a real problem.**

**Still not a hallucination, I promise! Go forth and enjoy the madness!  
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Chapter 28

Legolas couldn't remember the last time he had been this angry. He probably had been, sometime, and he was reasonably sure it would have involved a combination of orcs, wargs and the presence of his father. But apparently he could get angrier still, because when Aragorn fell into the water, such a great wave of desperate, panicked fury went through him that for a moment he stopped beating an orc's head against a wall and just took a deep breath in order to prevent the red haze from blinding him that was descending on his vision.

It didn't work very well. Legolas threw all anger-managing techniques he had been taught by a multitude of teachers and trainers out of the window, slammed the orc's head against the wall with all his strength and turned around before it had time to crumple to the ground.

Around him, there was chaos, but he knew that it would not last long. In the beginning, there had been eleven orcs, one of them that ... creature that was the leader. His group, however, numbered eight in total, and that was more than enough to even the odds, even though the orcs held the clear advantage of familiarity with the terrain and heightened night vision that the rangers lacked.

Somewhere to the left of him, Haldar yelled in horror, apparently having just seen what Legolas had, namely Aragorn falling into the water with an orc in a tangle of arms and legs and a wildly flailing scimitar. Legolas was already moving, shoving his way through the fray. He was relatively certain that he hit at least one ranger right in the face, and he didn't even spare a single thought to that ranger's safety or the fact that he really hoped that it had been Torthagyl, who was beginning to get on his nerves.

Dodging a scimitar aimed at the general area of his torso, Legolas rushed towards the underground lake. A sudden flurry of movement at the far side of the cave made him freeze for a long moment just as he reached the shore, slowing time and enclosing him and the entire cave like deep golden, slow-moving resin. Even though more than a handful of moving, fighting orcs and rangers separated the two of them, Legolas felt how his gaze was inexorably drawn to the orc captain, who was just turning back around, having almost reached the mouth of the tunnel he had been aiming for all along.

It lasted only for a second or two, that moment, and to most people the elven prince would have looked completely emotionless as he locked eyes with the orc. But those looking closely – which, admittedly, not a lot of people were prepared to do in the middle of a fight to the death – would have seen the _look _in his eyes, vengeance and anger and cold, dispassionate calculation all rolled together into something so piercing that even most elf-lords would have found it hard to endure. This was what Fëanor must have looked like when he returned home to find his father slain and the Silmarils stolen.

This is not over, Legolas said quite eloquently without even opening his mouth. No matter where you go, I will find you. I will find you and I will make you pay for what you have done to him. I will find you and I will _kill _you.

The moment was broken when an fatally wounded orc stumbled across their line of vision to collapse a few feet from the orc captain, and the world sped back up. The tall orc scowled at the elf, glinting eyes darting from the agitated water to the mouth of the tunnel and back again as he apparently tried to gauge his chances of getting to his prey and escape afterwards.

Legolas took a half-second to smile dangerously at the orc as he came to the very correct conclusion that he stood absolutely no chance at all of laying even a single finger on Aragorn, ever again. The orc turned around with a snarl and yelled something in the Black Speech, but Legolas didn't pay him any attention. He would find him later. Let the rangers handle the orcs.

It took two seconds to loosen the straps of his quiver and let it drop heedlessly to the floor together with his long cloak, two long seconds of scanning the water for any sign of Aragorn or the orc he had dragged with him. He gripped his one remaining dagger tightly, absolutely consumed by the rippling surface of the dark water. Around him, the fight was still going strong, both sides furious and unwilling to give the smallest quarter. One particularly perceptive orc noticed Legolas' preoccupation and rushed towards him, but before it had even got within five feet of him, Haldar had thrown himself forward, intercepting it with a shout of fury. There may or may not have been a lot of blood after that; Legolas didn't really pay attention.

The level of shouting and clashing metal rose suddenly as more orcs poured into the small space from the tunnel on the far left. Even while the strategical side of him noticed took note of their number (a lot), weapons (too many) and general attitude (fearful but murderous, not a good combination) and concluded that this could very well mean serious trouble for them, Legolas pushed these thoughts from his mind. Two steps more and he was at the edge of the lake, and the smallest hint of movement to the right was enough for him to jump.

The cold hit him like a sledgehammer right between the eyes, stunning him and stealing the breath right out of his lungs. It was the middle of August and getting uncomfortably hot for humans, but that did not matter here. So deep underground, the water was ... freezing – so much so that his hair seemed to be making a spirited attempt of trying to freeze to his cheek. Legolas didn't dare think about what the temperature would do to his human friend, what it would have done to him in perfect health. What it would do to him now, after almost three days in this cave – that did not bear thinking about at all.

The water churned to his right and something dark flailed wildly through the freezing waves, the movement weak and disjointed. Eyes straining to see through the gloom, Legolas all but shot forward, bubbles streaming behind him like a banner. The lake wasn't terribly big, and so it didn't take him long to reach the two figures slowly sinking towards the bottom. Even now the cold was tearing at his nerves and deadening his limbs, and Legolas knew that even he wouldn't last much longer than another couple of minutes in the icy water.

For any other race that didn't possess the resilience of the Firstborn, it would be far worse – and it was, too. Legolas was now only twenty or twenty-five feet away, and he could see clearly that the wild flailing was getting slower, the two figures intertwined and slowly sinking further and further.

And one of the two was not moving at all.

With a growl that he hadn't wanted to voice and that wasted more precious air, Legolas propelled his body forward, reaching the sinking pair after a few more seconds. The unmoving figure was indeed Aragorn, an almost undetectable current stirring his long dark hair and thus obscuring his features. The man's body was slack, his limbs loose, and it was quite clear that he was unconscious or well on his way of being so, for he made not even the weakest attempt to reach the surface or disentangle himself from his still struggling captor.

Not that it would have mattered much if he had, for his hands were shackled in front of him with rusty metal chains that served to pull him towards the bottom of the lake that much faster. Legolas' heart began to beat more quickly inside his chest – and not from lack of air – when he put 'unmoving', 'unconscious' and 'bound' together. It turned into a frantic pounding when he added the fact that there was a faint, but discernible reddish cloud surrounding his friend's body, its origin apparently the young man's right hip, and the even more distressing lack of air bubbles escaping his slack lips.

No air bubbles meant no more air to spare, and probably even a lungful of water.

Even while Legolas still tried to reach the two sinking figures, one of them gave a sudden, violent jerk. Unfortunately, it was not Aragorn, but rather the orc that he had taken over the edge with him. It moved cumbersomely, weighed down by its metal armour, but it must have found new strength somewhere, probably in that deep, primal part of its orcish mind that made its kind hate the Firstborn with that fierce and eagerly returned intensity.

For a moment, orc and elf stared at each other, one slowly sinking ever deeper and the other trying to keep up, encumbered in his own clothes and equipment that he hadn't had time to shed. At least some of the anger and oh-so-deep-seated hatred and loathing swirling inside of Legolas must have been visible on his face, for the orc narrowed its dark eyes and compressed its lips, and with an undecipherable, distorted sound that must have expelled the last of its air, it grabbed Aragorn's torn shirt and held on with all the strength of its slowly dying body. The two of them, orc and prisoner, lurched away from Legolas.

Legolas realised with a start that the orc must have read its own death in his eyes, which, incidentally, was an outcome that he desired very strongly indeed. The creature now only wished to ensure that it didn't die alone. He didn't know if it was out of spite or part of a larger plan – had the orcs discovered just whom they had captured? –, but this goblin would try and take Aragorn down into death with it.

Panic gave him new strength, and yet it took him longer than he had thought to get close to the sinking pair again, a fact that he blamed on his still healing injuries. His right shoulder didn't hurt quite as badly as his burnt hand, but he hadn't regained his full strength yet, and his lungs that were now in earnest beginning to scream out for oxygen were informing him that getting his side impaled by random branches was not a good way to increase endurance.

By the time he managed to reach Aragorn, he was starting to get light-headed, but he shook it off and reached out with his one free hand. The man's shirt slipped through his weakening fingers, but Legolas managed at the last moment to grasp the metal chain connecting the two manacles around his wrists. Although the icy metal was so cold it seemed to burn his skin, he was suddenly very glad for the chains.

His relief was short-lived, however, because Aragorn was almost immediately tugged further downward. Fury pushed his fear and need for air aside for a moment, and Legolas stared hatefully at the orc who was still holding on to its prisoner's shirt, claw-like fingers tangled in the material in a death grip. How the orc was even still alive, Legolas did not know. It did still live, however, and was wearing an insufferable smirk even while the last bubbles of air left its grinning mouth.

And that was really all that Legolas could take.

Letting go of the chains binding his friend's wrists was quite possibly the hardest thing he had ever had to do, but there was no way he could have moved his right hand with enough dexterity to do anything but cut off his own ear, or possibly both ears. Switching his knife from his right to his left hand, he compensated for the slight downward movement that dragged Aragorn further away from him and stabbed downward.

It was not a perfect movement, but, well, he hadn't expected it to be, because the angle was less than ideal and the circumstances even less so. He sliced more or less neatly through what was left of Aragorn's shirt, opening it completely from bottom to top on the right side. Legolas couldn't help but smile grimly as the fabric parted with a muted sound that was distorted by the icy water, because the look of absolute and complete surprise on the dying orc's face was something he would treasure until the ends of Arda.

Legolas' smile remained intact as he thrust the knife into his belt, grabbed his friend again and pulled him towards him. With a last, ripping sound the shirt gave way, and Legolas kicked out with his left leg, hitting the orc squarely in the chest. Pain travelled up and down his entire left side at the sudden contact, but it was completely worth it, because it propelled the orc away from them, the remnants of Aragorn's tattered shirt still tightly clutched in its fingers. The armoured body canted backwards, floundering and rapidly sinking now, and Legolas allowed himself a last, gleeful thought before the rather more urgent matter of breathing returned to the forefront of his mind.

Not daring to think of what further damage he might be doing his friend, he tightened his grip on the chains and made to swim up towards the surface. His resolve was somewhat tested by the fact that there were large dark spots beginning to lay themselves across his vision, and he had to take a second to try and figure out just where "up" was. Oxygen deprivation was such an annoying malady, he thought rather fuzzily, and just how was he supposed to solve complicated questions like where the surface was when he felt like this? Up, up, up ... well, the orc was _down_, and it was over _there_, so up should be ... bubbles! Air bubbles always travelled up, or they were supposed to, so up should be ... there. No, sorry, _there_. Blue eyes squinted slightly as they followed a couple of small air bubbles moving unerringly towards what he supposed was the surface, and the rest of him decided sluggishly that that direction was as good a bet as any.

Legolas mobilised the last of his strength and pushed towards the surface, one hand tangled in the chains and dragging the unconscious man after him. He had no idea how deep they'd been, or how long they had been underwater, but that didn't matter, because he hadn't had any air left as of fifteen seconds ago. The dark spot became larger and larger, and in the end he couldn't see anything but the air bubbles he was chasing, which travelled inexorably towards the unseen surface of the lake. Legolas could feel nothing anymore but the tension in his left arm and hand, the one holding onto Aragorn, and no matter how hard he tried, he didn't seem to be able to speed up. His movements continued to become less and less co-ordinated, and just when he thought that the black spots would become a solid blanket that would drag him and Aragorn under for good, his head broke through the surface of the lake, to his great and lasting surprise.

He surfaced to the sound of unabated fighting – metal clashing on metal, crashes, shouts and curses –, but for the first few moments, he could do nothing but clutch Aragorn's still body against his chest, blink icy water out of his eyes and _breathe_. Later than he'd have liked, his breathing calmed and his panting breaths subsided, and he started shivering as his body had the time to realise just how cold he was. Still trying to stop his heart beating right out of his chest, he shook his head from side to side and attempted to focus his eyes on the scene in front of him.

And almost immediately wished that he hadn't .

When he had dived into the lake, he had left something like a sixteen-to-seven advantage, counting recent reinforcements as far as he'd been able to see – in the orcs' favour, that was. That sounded bad – almost two-to-one – but it wasn't so much, really, not considering the rangers' fighting skills and very, very obvious motivation and the fact that the orcs seemed to want out out _out _and not much more. So, sixteen-to-seven wasn't all that bad.

Now, however, it looked more like something like were-that-really-twenty-something-orcs-all-over-the-place? ... to seven. Legolas didn't know what the rangers had been doing for the past five to ten minutes, but right now it looked as if they'd sat down and had a tea party with the orcs, or maybe indulged in some spontaneous replication of their foes.

He caught himself before he could have any more uncharitable thoughts that were really more panic and anger than anything else. He didn't know what had happened here, but judging by the various orc bodies decorating the cave floor, there had been a lot of orc-slaying involved. Orc reinforcements must have arrived while he had been in the water, which was very, very bad. If he hadn't been literally in the middle of the lake, clutching his probably technically dead friend, or about to freeze to death himself, he would probably have felt the urge to do something about that.

First things first. First he had to get out of the water, then he had to take care of Aragorn, and _then _he could help the rangers not get slaughtered. Oh, and in between he should probably make sure that the two of them weren't slaughtered along with the aforementioned rangers. All right.

Unfortunately, Legolas had been entirely correct when he'd determined that he was in the middle of the underground lake. It wasn't very big, no, but now – with an unmoving and very uncooperative Aragorn occupying his functioning left arm, and his own clothing and equipment weighing him down even further – it might as well have been the size of Esgaroth. It took him about half an eternity (and, being an elf, he knew quite a bit about those) to even get close to the shore. Just when he was just a few yards away from solid ground, he had to change directions, because the fighting had shifted once again, and there were now four large orcs all but perched on the very edge of the lake. They completely blocked the little beach-like spot, the one place where they could have left the water easily, though they seemed not to have seen him. For a second Legolas thought about calling out to one of the rangers close-by – that looked like Haldar and Torthagyl over there – but he very much doubted that they would have heard him over the din of fighting. Besides, it would alert the orcs to their location, and considering his condition, that would lead to a very messy and very instantaneous death.

It took him an additional few seconds to reach the shore further to the left, and by now he was slowly beginning to go out of his skin with panic. He was old enough to know how these things went, and was aware that probably no more than three or four minutes had gone by since he had dived into the lake. Under circumstances such as these, a few seconds could feel like half a minute, and he suspected that he had spent not much more than maybe a couple of minutes submerged. But no matter if it had been two or three of four or even five minutes, there was no telling how long Aragorn had gone without air. The only thing that Legolas knew was that it had already been too long.

They reached the shore with an small thud that Legolas was sure he was imagining, and for a second he just leaned against the rocks, desperately trying to get the tremors under control that by now shook his entire body. But Aragorn still didn't seem to be breathing, and now there was enough light to see just what had been done to him, and there was simply no _time_, and so Legolas ignored the fact that his body seemed to want to sink ignominiously towards the bottom of the lake, used all of his not inconsiderable elven strength and reached for one of the fallen boulders, testaments of a prior cave-in, that were lying on the edge of the shore.

He had actually chosen this side of the lake because of the selfsame boulders that shielded him from the view of the fighters, but now the rocks proved very useful handholds. He couldn't gain the leverage to pull himself and Aragorn out of the water at the same time, and so he very awkwardly pushed his friend's unmoving body up the rocky shore, pulled himself up after him and continued the process until the two of them were lying in-between the large rocks. Well, they were more out of the water than in it, strictly speaking, for both of them had one leg dangling over the rocky edge of the lake, but right now Legolas counted that as a win.

Legolas coughed weakly, listened to the cacophony of the fight behind him and the silence right next to him, and sat up so suddenly that he might as well have been stung by something green, poisonous and in possession of a particularly nasty stinger. Sitting up, the cover provided by the scattered boulders was a lot more meagre, but Legolas didn't have time to worry about the possibility of an orc seeing him because ... well. Aragorn was lying next to him, pale and, for a lack of better words, dead.

Legolas was over 2500 years old and had seen his fair share of dying and dead men, but among those there had been (woefully, as he found now) few drowned ones. Those who fell into the Forest River were not oft seen again, the current too swift and too treacherous even for most nimble and fleet-footed elves, and those who did turn up usually did so floating face-down in the Long Lake. What he did know, however, was that if you had a drowned person on your hands, you had to get the water out of the lungs and aid the breathing in any way possible.

Unfortunately, he soon found out that his hands were still trembling too badly to figure out whether or not Aragorn was breathing, or whether his heart beat at all, and so he threw caution to the winds and rolled the man onto his back, head tilted back, and did what he had seen Hithrawyn, his father's master healer, do once or twice when a rare drowning victim had been brought to him: He linked his hands, placed them just below his friend's sternum, and pressed down as hard as he dared.

His thoughts were scattered and wild, like a panicking thing tearing against all restraint, and try as he might, he couldn't think of anything else to do. This wasn't what warriors had to deal with, he ranted inwardly, as he pointedly did not look at Aragorn's white face and blueish lips or the state of his friend's torso that he was now – as if to add insult to injury – compressing in a manner that simply couldn't be conducive to his future recovery. Blood and broken bones he could deal with, and poisonings too if he had to because he had spent millennia embroiled in politics of all sorts, and head wounds and severed limbs, because that was what you saw when your calling in life consisted in killing as many orcs as possible, but this?

Legolas shrugged his face against his shoulder, adding drops of water or perspiration off to the soaked fabric of his shirt, and stubbornly pressed down again, refusing to give up despite an utter lack of reaction. _This _was outrageous, and just another reason why Aragorn would never again be allowed to go _anywhere_, anywhere at all, unsupervised and without at least three or four bodyguards, and if he had to _sit on him_, and he bloody well would if that was what it took to make him see reason, and apart from that it was further proof that the ranger wanted to drive him insane which could only be part of a grand Noldorin _conspiracy _against all _decent _elven tribes and...

...and Aragorn suddenly gave the weakest cough imaginable, a sound so feeble that Legolas barely had the time to register it and roll the man onto his side before he started coughing up what looked like most of the lake. Legolas didn't think he had ever grinned quite so widely, and he reached out with a now truly and really shaking hand to steady his friend. A second later he found himself lying crumpled against the largest boulder to his right, his head ringing and feeling as if he had just missed something important.

There was something yelling at him, an instinct that had been honed over the years to razor sharpness, but just then Legolas realised three very important things: One, that the sound was real, two, that it was an orc, and three, that said orc was one second away from clubbing him over the head in a very final manner. The second turned into a second and a half, and Legolas just barely managed to roll to the side, wet clothes squelching. Somewhere behind him, Aragorn was still coughing, which meant that he was alive, and that was really all that Legolas had the time to ascertain. The orc that had taken him by surprise was now rounding the last boulder between them, giving Aragorn a quick look and instantly dismissing him as a threat.

Legolas scrambled to his feet, adrenaline chasing away the last remnants of the chill still clinging to his bones, and managed to wrench his knife out of his belt. The orc rushed him again, apparently intent on pushing him backwards into the lake, but Legolas side-stepped it with a movement that looked almost disinterested in its calm execution. The dagger came down in a long, gleaming arc and found the thin strip of unprotected flesh on the left side of the orc's torso, where the metal plates of the armour met. One quick, practiced stab upwards later and the orc crumpled to the ground, its movements abruptly cut short.

It hadn't happened quickly enough. Even while Legolas was pivoting on the balls of his feet, he saw movement to his right, and by the time he had turned completely he saw that his sudden appearance from between the strewn boulders had not gone unnoticed. There was what looked like a solid line of orcs between him and the nearest ranger. Three of the creatures had broken away from their companions and were coming his way – and they were armed far better than just with clubs. A shout that sounded like a mixture between a curse and a warning told Legolas that Haldar, too, had seen him and more importantly the orcs heading for him, but it was clear that the ranger could do nothing to help him. Torthagyl, the ranger fighting next to Haldar, managed to push his way halfway past the two orcs blocking his way, but overlooked the third one, which seized its chance and cut the man down where he stood. All further tries of any other ranger to break through to him were stopped, and the orcs managed to push the men back another couple of feet.

Legolas saw Torthagyl fall and heard Haldar's accompanying shout of concern and rage, a rage that was rekindled in his own heart. He only knew him as one of the rangers that had escorted him from the Ranger camp to the village three days ago, and had to admit that he didn't really like him, but disliking one of Aragorn's people and watching dispassionately while he was being cut down by orcs were two very different things. The three orcs had almost reached him now, and Legolas almost immediately saw that he was in trouble. The goblins were of the smaller, sturdy kind, but they were bulky, muscular and very well-armed. Legolas recognised them as some of the orcs that had accompanied the orc captain when they had caught up with Aragorn and his captors, which meant that they were the ones that the captain had trusted to get him and his captive out of the cave. But even worse than that, each of orcs was heavily scarred.

This was _bad_. Scars meant that they had extensive experience in fighting and _not _getting killed, and well-kept weapons suggested that they also possessed some brains.

To Legolas' considering disgust, the three of them also knew how to work together, which they demonstrated by splitting up and coming at him from three sides. All he had to counter with was his superior speed, and he dodged the first surprisingly well-placed slash and came up behind the orc trying to run him through. He stabbed down quickly, aiming for that weak spot on the side of the torso, but the orc recovered quickly and turned at the last second. The knife scratched over the metal armour, but it was enough to wound, if not kill, and the orc stumbled and went down. It was still enough to upset Legolas' rhythm, and the blow to his left shoulder did not catch him by surprise at all.

Legolas glanced at his shoulder even while he ducked away from the two remaining orcs, and emotionlessly watched the blood well up in what looked like a long, deep cut that ran from his shoulder down his left side. Unfortunately, it was the same side that had made such unwelcome and intimate contact with a tree branch not too long ago, and when the pain hit him after a heartbeat or two of wonderful numbness, it was bad enough to almost drive him to his knees. He actually staggered slightly, but that turned out to be a good thing, because it made the next blow miss him by mere inches. Legolas gritted his teeth against the pain and the knowledge that he was two seconds away from getting himself and Aragorn killed, and pivoted towards his attacker and not away as the orc so clearly expected. It was enough of a distraction to give Legolas an extra second to bring his knife up and to the right, and a second was really all a warrior of Mirkwood ever needed. The blade cut neatly through the unprotected throat of the snarling orc, and hot, black blood splashed up the side of his face.

Legolas backed away to regain his bearings and blink the vicious fluid out of his eye even as his opponent fell, but by now the orc he had wounded was up again, and it and the other remaining goblin were closing in on him. His left boot touched something soft and largely unmoving, and the elven prince realised that it was Aragorn and that he had reached the end of his rope, so to speak. The two orcs had also realised that he had nowhere to go, at least judging by the large, identical grins that appeared on their faces.

Yes, this was not looking good at all.

Legolas would have liked to turn around and check on his friend, and be it only to see if he was still breathing, but he didn't dare take his eyes off his foes. A sudden calmness stole over him as the seriousness of his situation fully sank in, and Legolas watched the very long, very gleaming sword that the uninjured orc tossed from hand to hand in a display clearly designed to intimidate. He idly wondered where the orc had got it from, for it looked lovingly cared for and vaguely elven-made, and with a sudden start he realised that it must have taken the weapon from one of the dead rangers, maybe from Ciryon or Cemendur, or from Halbarad or even Aragorn when they had taken from him the sword that Lhanton had given him.

The rage from earlier intensified. He would be _damned _if he was killed by a ranger's blade, no matter who wielded it.

The two orcs exchanged a wordless look and charged him simultaneously, and Legolas had nowhere to go but forward. He had to put one of them down and fast, or all would be over. He stepped first left and then right, aiming for surprise and the orc with the sword, but his foot slipped in either the dead orc's blood or his own, and he didn't manage to get past the goblin's guard. Legolas transferred his knife to his right hand, biting back a groan of pain as he moved his wounded hand, and slammed his left elbow into the orc's grinning face with all the strength his injured shoulder could muster. He heard and felt its nose break with a very satisfying crunch, and his opponent stumbled backwards, yelling with the sudden pain.

Legolas seized his opportunity and the fact that his weapon was suddenly free. He turned with lightning speed and took a stab at the remaining orc that, hampered by its earlier injury, was only now turning towards him. The dagger found its way through the orc's armour, but as the creature began to sink towards the ground, dead already even though the body would need a few seconds yet to catch up with that fact, the weapon twisted and grated against the metal plates. Legolas tried to withdraw it before it was wrenched out of his grip, but it was too late. Knife and orc went down, and before he could try to scoop up another weapon, the third orc barrelled into him, dark blood streaming from its broken nose. Its armoured shoulder connected with Legolas' right side and arm, and the world disappeared in blinding pain as spiked metal plates connected with his burnt hand.

He came back to himself a couple of seconds later, lying on the ground with agony still pulsing through his right side, and was treated to the sight of the orc's blood-smeared, snarling face and the bright steel of the sword coming towards him. He didn't even have time to fully register what that meant when suddenly there was a tall figure between him and the gleaming blade, stepping into the way of certain death from somewhere to his the left. The blow that was intended for Legolas connected with the figure's right hip, sending it reeling, and while it was turning with the momentum Legolas saw just who it was.

Lhanton's face, grey eyes dark with pain, was clearly visible as the young man desperately turned the motion into a spin, his long coat streaming behind him. By the time he faced the orc again, his own sword was stabbing up, hitting the orc's torso with practiced precision. The ranger seemed to stare at the creature impaled on his weapon for a second or two before he suddenly withdrew his sword, making the orc collapse onto the cave floor, its own weapon falling from its hand and hitting the ground with a clatter. Legolas watched the ranger and the orc, who stared at the former with open astonishment. Lhanton only looked back, expression unreadable.

One second passed, then two, and then Lhanton raised his sword again and coldly brought it down, separating the dying orc's head from its shoulders.

For a second, there seemed to be nothing in the world but the sound of Legolas' flat breathing and the noise of the fighting in the background. It seemed to be abating somewhat, for better or for worse, but Legolas couldn't tell which it was by sound alone. A moment later the spell was broken, and the man straightened back up, his eyes wandering from the fallen orcs to the sword lying on the ground and then up his own body to the bleeding wound on his hip.

"Huh," he said ineloquently as he turned to Legolas, sounding slightly nonplussed. "The things I do to get my sword back."

Legolas looked to his right, at Aragorn's still body and the way the young ranger's chest moved up and down with every laboured breath he took. He looked for a while longer, drinking in the sight, and then he sank back onto the stony ground, closed his eyes in relief and laughed.  
**  
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**

This was not exactly going according to plan. Then again, maybe it was, because they hadn't really had a plan apart from "Let's go in, try not to get killed, find Aragorn and Halbarad, try not to get killed, kill as many orcs as possible, and get out again. Oh, and try not to get killed." Since they had got in, killed quite a few orcs, found Halbarad, and hadn't been killed (yet), they had actually been quite successful until now.

On the other hand, Elladan had to admit to himself as he pulled his head back around the corner and coolly watched as a smaller dagger and a ragged-looking scimitar (not very practical for throwing, he thought detachedly) clattered as they hit the wall to his left, they _had _lost Daervagor, Tarcil and two of the other rangers. Well, by "lost" he meant that they had been separated by hordes of very, very furious orcs, but on the positive side, Daervagor had had Halbarad with him, so maybe the captain had managed to get his son out of this excuse for a maze.

He was sure that, on recounting this particular part of what would hopefully still turn out to be a rescue mission and not a famous last stand, they would somehow manage to turn this into a conscious and very astute tactical decision, but right now Elrohir, Aravir, two of his men and him were stranded somewhere in an orc cave with no idea where they were or how to get out. Valar, wouldn't Glorfindel love this when he heard about their "tactics" – and he would hear about it, he always did. Still, that would be nothing in comparison to what Erestor would do. If he knew the councillor at all, he would make them re-read "Battles and Skirmishes of the First and Second Age" by Pethdan. All thirty-six volumes of it.

Even though, he guessed, the exit was most likely _that _way, in the direction where all the orcs were blocking their way.

"So ... the exit is that way, don't you think?"

Even despite the fact they were trapped in an orc cave whose inhabitants knew that they were here and were right now spiritedly trying to kill them, despite the fact that they had allowed themselves to be separated from the rest of their companions, and despite the fact that they still hadn't found Aragorn, Elladan had to smile. Elrohir had always shared his sometimes rather dubious sense of humour.

"I think you could say that, yes," he allowed, and ducked his head back around the corner. This time, he counted five orcs at the end of the tunnel, one more than half a minute ago. Two of them spotted him immediately, and he hastily ducked back around the corner. A second later a crude arrow bounced off the wall to his left, hit the low ceiling and disappeared from view again.

Next to him, Elrohir raised his eyebrows at the arrow, his mood apparently slightly lifted by the chance to stop lurking in the shadows and start killing orcs.

"They're getting better, aren't they?" he asked no one in particular.

"They are." To Elladan's surprise it was Aravir who'd answered, the scar running down the left side of his face lending it an especially mocking expression as he gave them a very thin smile. "Only a foot and a half and about sixty degrees to the left and we'll be in serious trouble."

It wasn't often that the tall ranger joked – about as often as Daervagor himself did, actually – and Elladan immediately saw that it was for the sake of the two young rangers behind them. When their presence had been detected and they had suddenly found themselves knee-deep in orcs, Tarcil, the young ranger with the good eyesight, and the two more experienced rangers of their troop had stayed close to Daervagor who had been carrying his son. Elrohir, Aravir, the two younger rangers and he had been taking point and had been doing their best to push the orcs back and offer their companions the chance to make it back to the half-hidden tunnel they had come from.

It had worked – more or less, that was. Suddenly there had been orcs all around them, and Daervagor and the others had been gone. They had heard nothing from them, no shouts or curses or the sound of fighting, and so Elladan was determined to think that they had managed to get at least into the tunnel. What had happened to them then, Elbereth knew, but at least they had most likely been on their way out of the cave.

And that was actually the most positive thing he could say about this entire situation. Elrohir and him were still only one step away from coming apart at the seams and killing everybody and everything in their way, Aravir seemed to feel the same in his very reserved way, and the two younger men behind them were terrified. They were rangers and they were in Daervagor's company, so Elladan had no doubt they would do their duty (and do it very efficiently at that), but the both of them couldn't be older than maybe thirty years, and it was clear that this was the first time for them to be trapped in an orc cave.

If only, Elladan thought to himself with an inner sigh. For his twin and him, being trapped in orc caves had stopped being new and interesting about nine hundred years ago.

Next to him, Elrohir snorted in a rather un-elflordly fashion, and poked one of the orc weapons with a booted foot.

"I rather doubt that they know what a degree is, so I would assume us to be safe," he said with a sardonically raised eyebrow that would have made even Erestor proud. "So ... rush them?"

Elladan resisted the urge to poke his head around the corner once more.

"Why not? I find that my patience with this wears very thin indeed."

"Excuse me, my lord, but did you say 'rush them'?" Aravir asked.

"Why not?" Elladan repeated with an impatient nod. "There are only five of them..."

"Six," Elrohir interrupted him, retracting his head just in time to avoid another barrage of crude missiles. "Or seven. I think there's two of them that look distressingly familiar. They both only have one eye."

Elladan hoped that Elrohir was being flippant for the sake of the two young rangers. He wasn't entirely sure about it, however.

"Seven," he conceded, remarkably good-naturedly for the situation, even if he did say so himself. "We have the element of surprise on our side."

"Of course we do," one of the younger rangers muttered to his companion, "because they wouldn't expect us to do something so evidently _suicidal_."

Aravir shot a quelling look at the two men before he looked from Elladan to his twin, a slightly doubtful expression on his face, as if he couldn't believe that the two of them were in any way, shape or form related to the fabled Lord Elrond of Rivendell.

"There is no way the three of us can rush six or seven orcs who are fully expecting us to do just that," the man said, speaking slowly as if talking to particularly slow-witted children. "One of us would be dead before we'd got farther than ten feet. One more after another fifteen." He looked at bother of them earnestly. "Rangers are somewhat faster than your average human, sir, but we're not that fast."

Elladan could have hit himself. He had far more contact with humans that most elves, Valar, he _was _part human, after all, and still he had managed to forget his companions' limits and abilities and embarrassed them in the process. Something like this might have happened to a wood-elf, but it shouldn't have happened to him.

This was not the time and place to apologise, however, and so he merely gritted his teeth and moved past the rangers over to the other side of the small cave-like space they occupied, peering down the corridor to make sure that the orcs weren't getting clever and tried to sneak up on them from the other side. They weren't, which was the one piece of good news he'd heard in the past hour or so.

"Well, we have to do something," he said, quite unnecessarily. "We can't go back this way, unless we want to get lost somewhere in the bowels of the cave or trapped by even more orcs. We have to go forward."

"We do," Aravir agreed. "But the three of us cannot rush them. It would be madness, my lord, pure and simple. We'd die trying, and so might you or your brother."

"Agreed," Elrohir said, wincing against the sound of cold orcish voices threatening them with death, dismemberment and other, far more creative things should their owners get their hands on the five of them. "That would aid no one. Any other suggestions?"

For a second, Elladan thought about suggesting that Elrohir and he go alone, urgency and mounting panic churning inside of him. But the thought of Erestor and the thirty-six volumes of Pethdan's important, ground-breaking but utterly dull work made him still his tongue, because if their father's councillor ever heard about _that _impressive little bit of tactics, he would beat them over the head with it. Glorfindel would do far worse, not to mention their father.

And besides, Aravir was right: It _was _madness. Even if the orcs hadn't been expecting them, it would have been madness, their elven speed and millennia-long experience notwithstanding. Things being as they were, it was very likely that one of them would fall before they could reach the end of the tunnel. Elladan was desperate, he was willing to admit that freely, but that didn't mean that he was willing to bury his twin today, if he already (maybe, possibly, likely) would have to bury his little brother.

"The tunnel is, what, ten yards long?" one of the young rangers behind them asked speculatively. "Maybe we could stage a distraction with a few well-placed arrows while you..."

"No," Elladan interrupted the man, shaking his head. "It's not a ninety degrees angle, it's more like forty or fifty degrees. You would have to step too far into the tunnel to even see your targets. You would get one shot off, and then you would be dead."

Elladan poked his head around the corner again, careful to stay low, and immediately saw that his brother was right. There were definitely seven orcs by now, all sharp-eyed and armed to the teeth. Those who didn't hold bows were grasping small, sharp-looking knives and daggers, and they all looked very much as if they knew how to aim well and true. He barely had a second before one of the orcs spotted him and loosened an arrow that would have taken out his left eye if he hadn't hastily withdrawn his head. Ignoring the oaths and curses in Black Speech that were bellowed on the other side of the rock wall, he admitted the ugly truth to himself: They were not walking down this tunnel, not with three rangers who would stand no chance against what awaited them.

"We have to go back," he said, very, very reluctantly. "You and me, Elrohir, fire a few arrows down the tunnel, no aiming, just to distract them, and then we run the other way. I don't like it, but maybe we can find a way around..."

"Every second we delay here is one second more they have the time to get Estel out of here and out of our reach," his brother interrupted him. Elladan knew that tone of voice, the one that said that he would do what he had set his mind on, no matter what he or anybody else said. Elladan only knew him to have given in once while using that tone of voice, and that was when their grandmother had _looked _at him. When Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien _looked _at you, you did what she told you, period. Right now, he couldn't believe that he was being the more calm and reasonable of the two of them.

"Elrohir, we cannot use this way," he said very calmly and logically.

"I am not turning back, _gwanûr_." In his agitation, Elrohir had unwittingly switched to Sindarin. "Estel is down that tunnel. They would not guard it this zealously if they did not intend to keep us from him."

"We don't know that, Elrohir." Elladan shook his head. For a moment, he considered switching to Quenya, considering the rangers' ability to understand them well enough, but that would be a bit too conspicuous. "The rangers _cannot _use this way. They would most likely die. _You _could very well die. I will not risk that, not even for Estel."

"We cannot go back, either," Elrohir shot back stubbornly. Not for the first time Elladan wished he possessed even an ounce of his grandmother's threatening personality. His own brand of intimidation had never impressed his twin even a little bit. "We could get lost, we could run into even more orcs, we could walk into a trap, there could be a cave-in, there could be any number of things! We have to find him, Elladan, or all is lost."

"I know, brother, I know." Elladan clenched his teeth against the sudden stab of pain going through his heart. "But there is..."

"My lord!" Aravir interrupted him. "Listen!"

For the second time in less than five minutes Elladan had to suppress acute embarrassment – a man (ranger or not) had heard something he and Elrohir hadn't? Deciding that this whole episode in general would never be mentioned to either Erestor, Glorfindel _or _their father, Elladan pressed himself against the the rock wall and did what he was told. The two young rangers stayed in the back, guarding their backs, and Elladan had to turn away from their heavy grey-eyed gaze that was so much like Aragorn's.

At first, he wasn't sure what he was hearing, except for loud crashes and some metal clanking on metal. There were grunts and suppressed shouts and curses in Westron and Orcish, but it didn't last long. It was not even twenty seconds later when total silence fell, and Elrohir was clearly preparing himself to look around the corner again when soft footfall could be heard. Elladan tightened his grip on his naked blade and placed his left hand on his twin's shoulder, silently motioning him to move to the side to give Aravir, who had notched his bow, a clear field of fire.

There was a scratching sound as someone carefully rounded the corner, and only his brother's shout of "Stop!" and his own fast reflexes enabled him to hold his blow before it could fall. His hand shook with relief and exasperation and adrenaline as he sheathed his blade, and he glared at Ereneth and his wide grin who had both just appeared around the corner.

"...thank you?" the young ranger said as he realised how close to death he had just come, hazel eyes nonetheless dancing with amusement.

"You are a fool, _dúnadan_!" Elrohir hissed next to him, relief clearly turning into anger. "We could have killed you! Why didn't you announce your presence before you got your head cut off?"

Ereneth raised an eyebrow at him as he sheathed his own weapon that was coated with black blood to the hilt. Before he could say anything, a hand closed around the young man's shoulder and pulled him back slightly.

"Because he is a bloody idiot, that's why," Hírgaer announced lightly as he stepped around his little brother. His white-knuckled grip belied his nonchalant tone, however. "Are all of you all right?"

Elladan had already given him a quick smile and nodded his head before he remembered that he was angry at the man and his brother. Ereneth had left Estel behind – his chieftain and Elladan's _brother_. There was no possible world in which a Noldo would ever forget something like that.

"We are all right," Aravir answered for the five of them and stepped forward, clasping Hírgaer's outstretched arm. "A few scratches, nothing more. And there are a lot of dead orcs behind us."

"I would think less of you if there weren't," the half-Rohír told him, entirely seriously.

"You arrived just in time," Elrohir told the two brothers, drawing level with Aravir. His twin had always been the more diplomatic of the two of them, Elladan reflected, and was able to say things for which his own jaw would first have had to be forcefully unclenched. "You have our thanks, Ereneth, Hírgaer, and all your men as well. We wouldn't have been able to pass them unchallenged."

A trace of that old arrogance danced over Hírgaer's face, but it was quickly smothered when he looked at the five of them and the exhaustion and fear on the men's faces.

"No thanks necessary," he said levelly. "We are comrades, after all. Now, is there any news of Halbarad or Estel? And wherever did you leave the captain? Is he...?"

"No, no," Elrohir hurried to reassure the blond man. "As far as we know, he is alive, and so are Tarcil and the others. We found Halbarad. They are getting him out the way we came in."

"_A elenath Elbereth._" Ereneth breathed out the words softly and closed his eyes for a second before he opened them again, pure relief shining in the greenish depths. He exchanged a quick smile with his brother before he turned back to them. "How is he?"

"Not too well, I am afraid," Elladan spoke up as they followed the two young rangers around the corner and down the fought-for tunnel towards the rest of the rangers that were patiently waiting there, wiping black blood off their weapons and out of their faces. "But he was alive. We got separated shortly after we found him. We can only hope they made it out all right."

"How could they not?" Hírgaer asked softly just before they reached the others. The fair-haired ranger raised his head and looked Elladan straight in the eyes – something that not even the rangers did often or happily. Pinned by the cool green eyes, Elladan asked himself, and not for the first time, just what kind of enemy Hírgaer would make. "Captain Daervagor has found his son, and all that stands between him and help and safety are a few orcs. If I were him, I know nothing short of a fell beast of Mordor could stop me, and even it would have to try very hard indeed."

Looking from the man to his younger brother and back, Elladan knew that he was speaking the truth. There were not many places he was truly concerned to be in, but one of them would be between Hírgaer and his younger brother. He had no doubt that the man would do anything, absolutely anything, for his sibling, and Morgoth take the consequences. And, if he was perfectly honest, he wasn't really sure on whom he would bet if it came to that: On a fell beast of Mordor, or on Hírgaer with that particular glint in his eyes.

He rather suspected that it would be like with Glorfindel and the balrog, only slightly less grandiose.

They reached the rest of the rangers – three to be exact. Elladan hadn't been paying too much attention to who was part of the other troops when Daervagor had assigned the men their posts, but he was sure that there had been more than five rangers in Hírgaer's group. Aravir seemed to think so, too, because he scanned the faces of the men, concern in his eyes.

"Tinalad?" he asked the two brothers as he turned back to them. "Herion?"

"Tinalad is guarding our exit point," Hírgaer told him, green eyes unreadable. "Herion..." He trailed off, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "He fell."

Aravir only nodded once and turned to the two young rangers behind them, giving them instructions in a hushed voice. He turned back when the two hurried past him and joined the others, and Ereneth stepped next to him and shortly placed a large hand on his forearm.

"I am sorry, Aravir," the tall ranger said simply. "I knew you two were friends."

"Yes," the older man replied, eyes large and dark and anguished. There was a certain quiver in his voice as he spoke again, and the pain on his face intensified. "We are. My wife and his own are cousins."

There was not much anyone could say to that, and besides, Elladan hardly knew the man well enough to be able to lend him much comfort. He bowed his head and stepped around the two men, and joined Hírgaer at the far end of the tunnel. The blond man was peering down the long, broad corridor that was thankfully devoid of any more orcs, even though Elladan's elven eyesight enabled him to clearly spy a dark trail on the floor, glistening wetly even in the pitch-black darkness. It led over to the right and seemed to disappear into the very rock, and looked suspiciously like drag marks made of orc blood.

"Your exit point is over there on the right, I assume?" he asked, carefully surveying the scene in front of him. He couldn't hear anything at all, but that didn't mean much. These orcs had proven that they could be stealthy when they wanted to be.

Hírgaer shot him a quick, surprised look, but then he seemed to remember that he was talking to an elf who possessed the ability to see in the dark almost as well as during daylight.

"Yes," the ranger affirmed. "Tinalad is keeping guard. He will inform us should there be any signs of pursuit, even though we left none of them alive to tell of our progress. Ah, there he is now, look."

There was the smallest movement of dark grey cloth against grey-brown stone as the ranger standing in the cave opening or fissure moved slightly, but that was all. If Elladan hadn't been so displeased with the man, he would have been impressed. Spying that movement in broad daylight would have been impressive enough, but in the dark it was, for a human, almost unnatural.

"Do you have any idea which way to go?" Elrohir asked, coming up behind them. "We ... well, we have been a bit busy since we lost Daervagor and the others."

That was the closest his brother would ever come to admitting that they were utterly and completely lost.

Hírgaer's face darkened for a moment, and Elladan had to suppress a smile even despite the fear and urgency rushing through his veins alongside his very heartbeat. So the half-Rohír didn't like admitting ignorance either.

"Not precisely," the man said, speaking the words as if they were highly unpalatable to him. "Ereneth explored the cave system a few years ago, but he never got this far and there have been quite a few cave-ins. But we've been meeting more resistance lately. I would say down this tunnel and then further in this direction. I would say it leads roughly to the north-east. That should be about right, considering that you have been chasing them up here from the west."

Elladan chose not to correct the ranger's assumption that they had chased the orcs and not the other way round. Elven pride had to be upheld, after all, especially in front of Hírgaer.

"All right," he said, hefting his bow up on his left shoulder. "Aravir? We and Hírgaer are taking point. You're on rearguard."

The older man nodded and pushed his way to the back, eyes blank and unreadable. Aravir was too much of a Ranger to let his friend's demise interfere with his duties, but Elladan could almost see the rage bottled up inside of him, and took a quick second to feel vaguely sorry for the next orc to cross the ranger's path. Hírgaer and Ereneth inclined their heads as well and set to organising their men, and a second later they were moving down the dark tunnel. They collected the sentry Hírgaer had posted on the way, and the look Elladan and Hírgaer shared as Tinalad joined their file was one of complete agreement, the first Elladan could in fact remember sharing with the fair-haired man. It wouldn't do to guard this tunnel as a future exit point – they either found Estel and made their way out from where he was being held, or they wouldn't get out at all.

They moved down the long, narrow tunnels for some time without incident in almost total darkness. Now and then a spluttering torch lit the passage, but those were far and few in between, and neither Elladan nor Elrohir dared unveil the light that their elven bodies naturally emitted for fear of giving away their position. After a while they reached an intersection, with one tunnel leading to the south-west and the other one leading almost straight north. It wasn't a hard decision, and they were already more than a few hundred yards down the northern tunnel when Elladan spied a shape at the corner ahead and raised his hand to stop the men. Ereneth, whose reflexes were fast for a ranger but not fast enough for this, almost ran into Elrohir and had to be steadied by his brother. Elrohir barely seemed to be aware of what was going on behind him and was already moving forward, his long dagger drawn. Elladan followed him, motioning the ranger to stay where they were, and couldn't completely ignore the tension thrumming through him that told him that this may well be a trap.

As it turned out, it wasn't. Elrohir reached the shape first and was already turning back to him by the time he realised that it was the body of an orc, slumped against the rock wall and very dead. Its throat had been cut, very cleanly and precisely and almost from one ear to the other.

"It is dead," his brother told him in a hushed whisper and waved at the rangers to close up to them. "Not long, less than half an hour."

The rangers crowded around them, looking at the dead orc with varying degrees of satisfaction and professional interest.

"Ah," said one of them. "Haldar's work, I would say, but it could have been Lhanton as well. Rather handy with a knife, that boy is, and very silent and precise."

Elladan, who still remembered that Lhanton had _left his little brother behind_, was less than inclined to admire the man's handiwork, but even he had to admit that that was good news. So Haldar's group had been here, and had apparently managed to avoid detection up until at least this point.

"Do we follow, my lord?" Ereneth asked.

"Yes," Elrohir answered almost immediately. "They might require our assistance, and they seem to be on the right track. Let us hurry."

So hurry they did, or rather hurry as much as a group of people could who were literally suspecting enemies around every corner. They encountered two more dead orcs within the next few minutes, clearly stragglers or sentries, and by the time they found the second one they could already hear it clearly: The unmistakable sounds of a battle that – judging by the level of noise and the frequency of curses – was fierce and violent. Elladan found himself exchanging a look with Ereneth, and had to admit to himself that he forgave him a little bit for his numerous sins (namely _leaving Estel behind_) when he saw the raw urgency in his eyes. Still, he was professional enough not to rush forward, and the whole group carefully moved on. None of them did what they all wanted to do, namely throw caution to the winds and run until they found their comrades – oh, and kill every orc they could get their hands on before, during and after.

It took them another minute or two to reach the source of the noise. It surprised Elladan, who had thought it much farther away, but the acoustics were warped by the low-hanging ceiling and the twisting tunnels. He found himself pressed against the wall of the passage, edging forward, but before he could move further towards the bend in the tunnel that blocked his sight, he felt Elrohir's hand on his arm, shortly halting his progress. For a second, they locked eyes, and despite the situation and the urgency and the fear Elladan had to give his brother a small smile. _I will be careful_, it said, and W_e will find him_. _We will find him and we will kill those who took him, and I will smile while we do it_. _It will be __**glorious**__._

Elrohir gave him a disapproving look, apparently knowing exactly what he was thinking, but there was a glint in his eyes that Elladan knew only too well, a glint that Legolas would no doubt have called entirely Noldorin – and he would have been right. Vengeance was at hand, and the twins would thoroughly enjoy themselves while exacting it.

To his right, Hírgaer and Aravir were instructing their men with curt, quick hand signs, but Elladan couldn't really have cared less about their plans, because he had reached the corner and stepped into the large, cavernous space beyond it.

The first thing he noticed was that no one took note of him or tried to kill him.

The second thing he noticed was that this was entirely understandable, because at the other side of the cave, by the shore of an underground lake, about a score of orcs were doing their spirited best to kill a vastly outnumbered group of rangers, and vice versa.

The third thing he noticed was that Legolas was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Estel.

They had not found him. After all this, after all the lives this last desperate gamble had cost Daervagor's company, after all the planning and the waiting and the sheer, odds-defying _hope _– they had not found him. They had _failed_, Elrohir and him, they had failed Estel whom they had sworn to protect with their lives, and they would have to return to their father with the devastating news that his adopted son, the last of the line of his long-dead brother, had joined his ancestors in the Halls of Mandos after a lonely and oh-so-very painful and terrible death. It would destroy them as a family, something that not even their mother's forsaking the shores of Arda had been able to do.

Elladan had already crossed half the cavern before he knew what he was doing, only aware of Elrohir half a step behind him. He reached the first orc before an alarm had been sounded, and it had already died upon his sword before the call went up among the orcs. The second died just as easily, surprise written all over its hideous face, but the third had had some time to adjust to the idea that a horde of rangers and two very, very furious elves had just turned up behind it and its companions. Still, it was no match for Elladan's skill and the red-hot rage that burned inside of him, making everything brighter and clearer. One quick step to the side and subsequent slash of his sword and the third orc fell, and it was _too easy_.

Hírgaer, Ereneth and the others had reached them now, joining the fight that would be over far too soon, but Elladan only took note of their positions and kept going. To his left, Elrohir had just felled one more orc, but left his right side open to an attack as he tried to wrench his sword out of the dying orc's side. Another goblin, looking slightly startled at its good fortune, was about to take advantage of that, but Elladan was there long before it, the rage inside of him flaring ever hotter. If these creatures thought that he would lose his twin on top of his little brother today – that he would fail in the worst way imaginable –, then he would quite happily correct their assumption. The orc went down without having offered any serious resistance, and Elladan glowered at it as he automatically fell into place at his twin's left side. It was too quick, too easy, too simple!

If there had been any justice at all, it would have been a hard fight, worthy of epics and songs, because these orcs had killed Estel and with him in all possibility the future of all the free peoples of Arda. It _should _have been a true battle, something momentous, worthy of their human brother, but it wasn't even a real skirmish by the standards of Rivendell. By the standards of Mirkwood, it probably wasn't even worth mentioning in the weekly report.

But the orcs were caught between two forces, and by the time they had realised that to stay meant to die, it was too late to flee. One or two actually made it to the entrance of one of the tunnels branching off from the main cave, but the rangers of Haldar's troop caught up with them and made sure than none of them escaped. There were eleven orcs left, then eight, then four – and then just the one. Elladan didn't even realise that he was baring his teeth as he moved forward, pushing rangers aside and full of single-minded focus. But he was too late; Ereneth was there before him and very, very calmly dispatched the single orc that had managed to survive until now, pressed against the wall of the cave.

The man watched his opponent fall, flicked black blood off the blade of his sword with a practiced turn of the wrist, and turned around. There was satisfaction on his face, but there was also guilt and fear and a strange discomfort that Elladan was in no mood to analyse. The half-Rohír walked past him towards his brother, and as he passed him Elladan felt how he returned to himself and reality. The rage faded into the background but didn't disappear, but it was enough for him to blink and try and push back the oh-so-burning desire to keep on killing and not stop until he was wading through black blood.

"_Gwanûr._" That was Elrohir, coming up from behind him, with that particular look on his face that spelled very clearly 'I can't let him lose his composure because I don't have the will to stop him'. He had seen that expression on his brother's face a few times before, none of them good, and he forcefully made himself take a deep breath. _"In yrch gwenn. Far, Elladan."_

Enough. The word echoed through his head, and Elladan took another breath, suppressing the sudden urge to cry. Elrohir was right, of course. There were no more orcs to kill, and no matter how much he wished to, he knew that he could never leave Elrohir here while he rushed off and found some more to quench his fury on. Tactically, it would have been a monumentally bad decision, too, even though he didn't really care very much for tactics right now. Still, his brother was right. _Enough_.

He sheathed his sword with so much reluctance that his wrist shook slightly and turned to his twin, who had that same desperation-hate-rage-guilt in his eyes that Elladan knew was visible in his own. It immediately made him want to comfort his younger brother, but there was really nothing he could have said that Elrohir wouldn't immediately have identified as an empty platitude. He turned away again helplessly, _failurefailurefailure_ pulsing through him in rhythm with his heartbeat. All around him, rangers were carefully moving through the cave, bending over motionless orcs and kicking weapons away from them.

Elladan was trying to find Haldar, suddenly fearing the worst when he couldn't immediately spot him (Elrohir and him didn't always see eye to eye with the man, but that didn't mean that they wanted him _dead_), but the man solved the problem by running up to them, stepping around and over orc bodies left and right.

"My lords!" the man exclaimed, and it sounded more like a prayer of thanks than anything else. "You must come with me! Quickly!"

Elladan didn't question the ranger and just hurried over to him, taking a second to really look at him. There was blood on his face and clothes, most of it black but some of it glistening scarlet in the light that the few sputtering torches cast – most of them lying haphazardly on the floor now -, but what captured his attention wasn't that or the pain and fear on his face but rather the urgency that all but radiated off him.

"You have found him?" Elrohir asked as he rushed up to the man, only half a step behind him, because those words could mean only one thing.

"Yes," Haldar said, turning towards the lake. Elladan felt how he started to breathe again, though he couldn't remember ever having stopped. "I mean, we did. We had. But now I don't know..."

Before Elladan could do or say anything, Elrohir's hand shot out and jerked the man none too gently to a stop. It seemed that even his twin's patience could reach its limits.

"Speak plainly, westman. Where is our brother?"

"In the thrice-cursed lake, for all I know!" Haldar snapped back, wrenching his arm violently out of Elrohir's grip. Judging by his grimace, it cost the ranger bone-deep bruises, if not a sprain or a hairline fracture of the bone. "He was dragged over the edge – what, about ten minutes ago? The prince went in after him, and I saw him a few minutes ago, but I don't know if he managed to find him. I have not seen Estel since he went over the water's edge."

Sometimes, very rarely, Elladan cursed his training in the healing arts. Now was one those times, because his brain immediately began to scroll down a long, long list of facts and consequences. An underground lake, with very cold water temperatures, was bad news, especially for an already weakened human. It wasn't necessarily a death sentence, but it was very, very bad. If Legolas had managed to find Estel and pull him out before he stopped breathing completely, there was a chance he could still survive this. If he he hadn't ... well, then their brother was dead. No human could survive ten minutes submerged in cold water, not even one so monumentally stubborn as Estel.

"Where?" Elrohir interrupted his lightning-quick thoughts. "Where did you last see Legolas?"

Haldar shot him a look that was very, very close to insubordination. It also happened to spell 'If you weren't wasting my time interrogating me, I would have shown you already.' The man was rather vocal with his looks, Elladan had noticed already. He wasn't an idiot, though, because Elladan knew how his brother would have reacted to any sort of pert remark right now, namely with something akin to rather mindless violence.

"Over here," was all that Haldar said in the end, shrugging off the hand of a fellow ranger who had tried, in vain, to attract his attention. He strode towards the edge of the water with large steps as he continued, trusting them to keep up with him. "He appeared somewhere between the large boulders over by the shore. Torthagyl and I tried to reach him, because some orcs had noticed his appearance as well, but we could not breach their lines. Torthagyl fell, and I lost sight of him."

Elladan opened his mouth to ask just how many orcs had noticed Legolas at that particular moment – just what was the wood-elf _thinking_, he asked himself furiously, throwing himself into freezing underground lakes and at a random number of bloodthirsty orcs in the condition he was in –, but in that moment they reached the boulders. Before them, however, they reached the first orc body. It was lying some way away from the strewn rocks, and was very satisfyingly dead. Elladan could already see the outstretched arm of another between the rocks and was moving towards it as fast as his legs would carry him, when he suddenly had to come to a complete stop to avoid a head-on collision with a dark shape that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere from between the rocks.

His first thought was that it must be a lone orc that had hidden between the boulders. His second thought was that orcs didn't bleed red, nor, usually, swayed quite this much. His third was that Lhanton could be really, really annoying with his sudden appearances out of nowhere. It was a behaviour quite common for Rangers, of course, but that did not make it any less vexing.

"Finally," the man said with a deep sigh. His right hand was pressed against a bleeding wound to his hip while the left one grasped his sword in a white-knuckled grip. The black-tipped blade pointed more or less towards the ground, but seemed to serve mostly for balance, judging by the way he listed to the side. Strangely enough, there was another sword occupying the sheath hanging from his belt, which seemed a little bit like overkill, even for a ranger. "My friends and I were starting to feel lonely." He gestured with the hand holding the sword. "They don't talk much."

Lhanton's friends were apparently the two dead orcs lying at his feet. It was quite logical that they weren't in a talkative mood, since both of them had been stabbed very professionally between the ribs. Elladan quickly glanced at his brother. It was clear that the man had lost too much blood too quickly, which he couldn't have afforded to lose in the first place.

"They wouldn't," he agreed, tersely. With a quick movement, he caught the man's left arm and pressed the sword down, away from him. "Where is Legolas, Lhanton?"

"Over there, my lord," the man answered. Now that his left hand was restrained, he gestured with his right hand that glistened wetly with blood. The direction he indicated lay directly behind him, and Elrohir moved past them so quickly that he seemed to blur around the edges. Lhanton didn't seem to notice and only gazed at him earnestly, looking pale and sick and in quite a lot of pain. "We did what you asked of me; we found him. It may have been too late, but..."

He broke off as Elladan's fingers burrowed themselves quite painfully into his forearm.

"You found Estel? He is alive?"

For the first time, the man looked entirely lucid.

"Barely, my lord."

"Elladan!"

Elladan looked from Lhanton's swaying figure to where his brother was kneeling between the boulders and needed only half a second to make a decision. His right hand shot out, grabbed Haldar's arm who was about to move past him, and pulled him towards the two of them.

"Stay here. Sit him down, put pressure on the wound, _don't _let him get back up. Understood?"

For a second, Haldar looked as if he wanted to shrug off his hand and push past him towards where Elrohir was kneeling, but then he simply nodded and took a hold of Lhanton's sword arm, gently taking the blade from him.

"Come now, young one," Elladan heard him say as he rushed towards Elrohir's turned back. There was a headless orc to his left, head a few feet to the side, but he hardly noticed it. "Let me have that sword."

"Careful, Haldar, it's Torthagyl's. He'll want it back."

"No, Lhanton." There was grief and weariness in the older ranger's voice now, sharp and clearly audible. "He won't. Trust me, he won't."

Then he reached Elrohir, and everything else ceased to have any meaning at all. The first thing he saw was Legolas, sitting on the ground, wet as a drowned rat. There was a look of mixed relief and soul-deep anxiety on his face as he looked up to meet his eyes, fresh bruises already blossoming on his forehead and around his right eye.

"Manwë be praised," the prince said in something that sounded like a long, weary sigh. "Elladan, you have no idea how happy I am to see you."

"You say that every time we rescue you," Elladan said dismissively, crouching down next to his brother.

"And always do I mean it, but never more so than now," Legolas said, nodding his head. "I don't know how much longer he can survive down here. He wasn't breathing when I pulled him out of the lake and then the orcs spotted us and I had to leave him and..."

He trailed off, not that he would have needed to, because his words went completely over Elladan's head. He had pushed Elrohir slightly to the side and could finally see what Legolas had been doing, namely pressing part of his torn-up shirt against a deep, terrible wound in Estel's thigh. It didn't look fresh, more like it had been reopened during whatever-in-the-name-of-Elbereth-herself-had-happened-in-that-lake, and even half a glance told him that it was infected, and badly so. And that ... Manwë's breath, but that seemed to be the least of their worries.

Elladan hardly realised that he tore the leather straps securing his bag with healing supplies at his belt, or that some of them spilled out and onto the cave floor in his hurry to get the satchel opened. Elrohir, who hadn't even turned his head in recognition of his arrival, wordlessly stretched out his hand and Elladan handed him the utensils his brother needed, without them having to lose a single word about it.

The older twin's face hardened as he took in the wounds marring his human brother's body. The visual inspection wasn't difficult, because not much of the man's clothes remained. His shirt was gone completely, as were his boots and his coat, and his leather trousers were tattered and torn. Rusty manacles bound his hands together in front of him, but Elladan made quick work of them with Tarcil's bronze needle that Elrohir handed him in-between reaching for the supplies he passed him. They were badly-made and ill-fitting, and opened with a click that was more of a squeak. Elladan all but ripped them away, revealing wrists that were so badly torn and abraded that the healer in Elladan shuddered violently. The brother in him wanted to tear somebody's head off their shoulders.

Wordlessly, Elladan reached for a bandage and started to wrap Estel's right wrist, feeling suddenly very thankful that his little brother was not awake for this. Next to him, Elrohir was cutting through what remained of Estel's right trouser leg to get access to the wound, mindful of Legolas' hands that were still applying pressure. Elladan moved on to the left wrist, which wasn't in quite as bad a shape, but he could still see the white bone of the ulna peek out from the torn and bruised flesh. It would take quite some time and a lot of care before these wounds healed, and it would leave scars that would be visible for a long time. Elladan cut the thought off right there and then, and forced himself to focus on the question whether or not they had taken enough of that new salve with marigold and honey that Gelydhiel had been experimenting on for the past month or so. He finished bandaging the left wrist and gently laid it down, without exploding into a thousand little enraged pieces, which was more than he'd thought he could manage.

Elladan sat back slightly to give Elrohir more space and tried, really tried, to survey the rest of the damage done dispassionately, as their father and the other healers had taught them, but he might as well have tried to stop breathing. Elrohir had always been the better healer of the two of them; mostly because he could control his emotions better and didn't allow them to get the better of him. For him, however, it was utterly impossible: This was Estel, his little brother whom he had sworn to protect from everything and everyone, and _somebody had done this to him_, on purpose, because they had wanted to see him suffer and bleed.

That white-hot rage from earlier made him ground his teeth. No matter how many of them Elrohir and he had killed, it hadn't been nearly enough.

"Wound to the right thigh," he started to recite softly as he handed Elrohir the next rolled-up bandage. He watched as Elrohir pushed Legolas' hands aside, wadded up the makeshift bandage the other elf had been pressing against the wound, and started winding the clean length of linen around the injury, creating a makeshift pressure bandage. "Valar, but what a one. Bad bruising on the right side of the torso – maybe some injured ribs there –, an older wound to the right arm, looks like a stab wound, and bad cuts and bruises and abrasions all over."

"He also has a fever," Elrohir added, in that flat, cold tone of voice that usually meant that he was perilously close to losing his composure, temper and good sense in a quite spectacular manner. "From the leg wound, I would venture. And his breathing ... Valar, it's a miracle he still _can _breathe, Elladan. We have to get him away from here."

"We do," Elladan agreed and started to hand Elrohir the appropriate items as his twin set upon bandaging the wound to the young man's shoulder. "And ... what is that on his arm and chest?"

He bent closer, automatically handing Elrohir more bandages and a small bunch of dried _harucholor,_ and felt how his blood froze in his veins. At first, he had missed the wounds, because Estel's entire torso seemed to be covered in dried blood and bruises, but ... it couldn't be – surely, they wouldn't have? But they had, Elladan realised with sudden clarity. Somebody had ripped the skin off some parts of his little brother's chest and left arm, had skinned him like a dead rabbit.

"Elladan." That was Legolas, who had apparently seen the sudden cloud of fury lay itself over his face. "Breathe. You can kill more of them later."

That was a very Silvan thing to say, Elladan thought, and actually a very helpful one, because he _would_. He most definitely would. Next to him, Elrohir shifted slightly to the side, telling him with a raised eyebrow that he wished him to hold the bandage in place while he tied it off, and Elladan forced himself to do what his friend had told him. He breathed.

"What about you, Legolas?" Elrohir asked, even while he fastened the latest bandage.

Under normal circumstances, Legolas would have tried to deflect, or called them power-hungry, magic-cauldron-using would-be healers. Now, however, the wood-elf simply shook his head, forced his blood-smeared hands to be still and kept staring at Estel's still body with wide, fixed eyes.

"Nothing noteworthy. I am fine. Just some bruises and a cut that's already stopped bleeding. Don't worry about me."

Elladan looked at him with narrowed eyes but had to concede that the other elf was right. He wouldn't call it 'just a cut', of course, and it definitely still was bleeding, but Legolas was an elf and he was strong and stubborn and the Elvenking's son. If he knew his friend at all, he wouldn't allow such a "trifling" injury to affect him until Estel had been taken care of. And then, just because he was a wood-elf trying to annoy him, he would collapse in a dramatic manner.

"All right," he acceded. "Just stay there." He turned back to his brothers and felt how that wall he had erected between himself and this whole entire situation just crumbled as he looked at his human brother's still face. He couldn't help but reach out and touch his bruised, stubble-covered cheek, and was only half-prepared for the shock of _griefworryangerhateguilt _that pulsed through him. "We have to get him out of here," he told Elrohir without taking his eyes off his younger brother's face. "We do not have enough supplies here, and we need hot water and better light. Besides, the orcs could finally realise that they outnumber us and come back. We cannot treat him here."

"I know," Elrohir admitted quietly next to him. "But, Elladan, if we move him he could die on the way. Those ribs might be broken, and he might have internal injuries. And that wound to his thigh ... Elladan, it looks like something _tore _into him. Add to that the infection and the fever and the fact that he almost drowned ... we could kill him."

"Then, as I already told the orc captain, he will die among friends," Legolas said before Elladan could even open his mouth. "We have no choice."

'Orc captain?' Elladan asked himself, but, really, right now even something as enticing as that topic couldn't interest him. Besides, Legolas was right: They didn't have a choice. And no matter how much he hated the decision, never let it be said that the sons of Elrond lacked decisiveness. Elladan reluctantly withdrew his hand, even though he wanted nothing more than to stay and never let Estel out of his sight again.

"You are right," he told Legolas, getting to his feet. "You," he looked at his friend, "Stay where you are. I am going to organise a stretcher; we have spears and coats enough as it is. I will be as quick as I can. Will you be all right, Elrohir?"

"Yes," his twin said immediately. His voice was still calm and collected, as if he had everything under control and didn't doubt for a second that everything would be well. Elladan could hardly remember a time when he had loved his brother more. "But please, Elladan, hurry. I do not know how long I can keep him with us like this."

Elladan only nodded at his brother, suddenly choked by fear so strong he couldn't have spoken if he had wanted to. He turned around and had to take only a few steps before he ran into a veritable wall of rangers. Hírgaer and Ereneth stood left and right of Haldar, who was crouching next to Lhanton and bandaging the injury to his hip. The wounded man was sitting on one of the large boulders, looking very much as if he was only one step away from passing out and falling off. All of them, even Lhanton, only half-conscious as he was, looked at him with barely-concealed anxiety.

"My lord?" Haldar broke the silence.

"He is alive," Elladan hurried to reassure the men. Haldar seemed to sag where he crouched, for a second looking even more in danger of fainting than Lhanton, and even the usually reserved Hírgaer couldn't help but smile at him. "But barely so, I must tell you. We need a stretcher, and we need to get out of here as quickly as possible."

Ereneth nodded, shaggy hair falling across his forehead.

"I will take care of it. We will need more than one; Lhanton shouldn't be walking and there is another man badly injured in Aravir's group. We lost two more after Torthagyl, so we..."

"That is my responsibility," Haldar interrupted him, getting to his feet. "Partly responsible for this colossal mess as I am." He quickly turned to Ereneth. "Keep an eye on him. Hírgaer, I could use your help with ... Are you all right, my lord?"

Elladan looked back at him, puzzled, before he realised that the ranger had indeed spoken to him. He followed the ranger's look and saw that there was dark red blood covering the left side of his torso. He cocked an eyebrow at the wound and used his left index finger to poke at it through the gash in his clothing. How interesting, he thought mildly. He hadn't even noticed that he had been wounded. Then again, he very much doubted that he would have noticed an arrow sticking out of his shoulder or forehead. Come to think of it, though, it started to hurt now.

"I don't know. I did not notice until just now," Elladan answered, for once entirely truthful in discussing an injury. "It hardly matters. It's just a cut."

Haldar narrowed his eyes at him, nervously looking past him towards where Elrohir was kneeling. He was quite clearly taking a second to imagine the younger twin's reaction when he heard that he had allowed his brother to ignore an injury. For a second, Elladan could have sworn that his father was standing in front of him, wearing his patented Displeased Frown of Doom and demanding to know in which possible world a shattered forearm was 'just a little bruise'. Considering that the man hadn't had any prolonged contact with the Firstborn before this whole catastrophe had started, it was very impressive.

"Truly, it is nothing," Elladan hurried to stress in his most no-nonsense tone of voice that had never failed to have effect on humans and, actually, most elves. Haldar merely looked doubtful. "I will be fine. Please, Haldar, hurry. We have to leave, now, or else it might all have been for nothing."

Haldar nodded and hurried off, and Elladan turned to the two brothers.

"You are the only ones who actually know this place, at least somewhat," he said, looking at the both of them with a look that clearly said that he would accept no protest whatsoever. His eyes found Hírgaer's, who looked back at him with that confident, green-eyed stare of his. "Tell me that you can find us a way out of this Valar-forsaken cave."

Hírgaer looked at his brother, only a quick glance to the right, before he turned back to face Elladan and grinned.  
**  
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Tarcil was still very young by the standards of the Dúnedain, especially for someone occasionally occupying the position of a commanding officer. Yet he had quite some experience with life-or-death situations. He had joined Captain Daervagor's company at the tender ago of twenty, outrageously young in the eyes of his mother at the very least, and in the eleven years since then he had learned how to lead men even in the face of almost certain death. More than once, his quick reactions and not inconsiderable experience had enabled him to get himself and the men under his command back home safely.

What all that hadn't prepared him for, however, was having to deal with an almost completely unresponsive Captain Daervagor, a dead comrade, a probably dying comrade, possible pursuit by orcs, and an indefensible position. Add to that the fact that, counting Captain Daervagor and not counting Halbarad (who was unconscious and maybe dying), they numbered exactly three, including himself, and Tarcil was not a very happy ranger.

Oh, and those times when he had to act as commanding officer? That had been exactly three times, thank you very much.

But first things first. Figuring out a way for them all to survive this was definitely more important than facing the reality that he was so far out of his depths that he was in all honestly already half-way to the ocean floor.

"Tarcil!" the captain called behind him. Tarcil forced himself to stop panicking and turned around, hand tightening on the hilt of his unsheathed sword. His alarm was unfounded, however, because there were no enemies to be seen, only Captain Daervagor, his son cradled in his arms. "Stop. We cannot remove ourselves too far from the caves. We must wait for the others."

Tarcil was not an overly pessimistic person, but he almost pointed out that the others may very well be dead or captured. They themselves had, after all, lost one more warrior after having been separated from Lord Elrond's sons, Aravir and the others. He was sure that the Lords Elrohir and Elladan were all right – indeed, he couldn't imagine them being anything but, them being elves –, but that didn't mean that he was equally confident about the chances of survival of his fellow rangers. There had been so many, _many _orcs.

He also almost pointed out that them staying close to the caves meant that the orcs who may very well have been pursuing them had less distance to cover until they could kill them at their leisure.

He didn't, though. The sun was already quite high in the sky, after all, and the chances of the orcs following them into the sunlight were rather remote. And besides, he wouldn't have dared cross Captain Daervagor under normal circumstances, and now, with him like this, he wouldn't have dared disagree with him if he had said that the sky was green.

"Yes, sir," he said instead and very reluctantly sheathed his sword. The captain hardly seemed to hear him and looked back down at his unconscious son's still face. Minastan, the only other member of their little troop to get out of the cave system alive, came up behind them, and Captain Daervagor's head snapped back up.

"All right," the captain began. "Tarcil, find one of the bags we left behind. Minastan, check the perimeter."

Tarcil inclined his head and turned, quickly orienting himself. It wasn't such a bad spot. It was, in fact, the main fall-back point that had been chosen beforehand, but that had been before their number had dwindled down to four (this time including Halbarad) and they had been chased out of the cave by hordes of bloodthirsty orcs. But still, it was a small glade half-way up the hillside opposite the main cave entrance that was in theory easily defensible. What interested him more at the moment were two things: That one, it was positively sun-drenched, which pushed the possibility of a sneak orc attack to below twenty or fifteen percent, and two, they had left some extra weapons and supplies here in case of something like this happening.

Still, both facts would have been more useful if they had been more than three people. He only had the two arms, after all, no matter how many weapons were stashed here.

He spotted the large boulder to the left that he thought was the hiding place of at least some of the medical supplies they had left behind. Moving towards it, he crossed paths with Minastan, who was looking about as happy about this whole situation as him. That didn't really reassure him, because the other ranger – about twenty years his senior – possessed all the experience he lacked, and had enough tactical acumen to know when he was in an untenable position.

Oh yes, they were potentially in a lot of trouble.

The older man gave him a quick once-over before he returned his attention to their surroundings.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," Tarcil assured him, not quite honestly, as he was crossing over to the boulder and yanking the bag out of its hiding place. "And you?"

"Fine," Minastan said in total disregard of the sluggishly bleeding wound to his right upper arm. "I could detect no signs of immediate pursuit."

"Maybe they lost us on the last stretch," Tarcil returned with more hope than assurance.

"Maybe," the other man granted, sounding about as convinced as him. He moved past him, towards the other side of the small clearing, but stopped and turned back, somehow apparently knowing exactly what was on Tarcil's mind. "It wouldn't have mattered, Tarcil. We couldn't have kept running, not with Halbarad in the condition he is in. He probably wouldn't have survived, and they would have caught up with us anyway – if they do pursue us, which is by no means certain."

"No, it isn't," Tarcil admitted, already walking back to where the captain had bedded his son onto the grass. "But wouldn't you?"

Minastan was gone already, but before he disappeared between the trees he shot him a look that said very clearly that, had he been in charge of the orcs, they would never have been in this situation, because they would never have made it past the first guard post. Tarcil felt better for about half a second before the severity of the situation reasserted itself. Death by orc ambush, the potential death of one of his comrades and the then not-potential-at-all killing spree of his commanding officer were still very real possibilities, which of course only meant another day in the life of a ranger, servant of light, truth and justice.

Maybe he really should have listened to his mother and become a farmer.

But it was too late for that now, and he had to admit that he would have made a very poor one anyway. The only problem right now was, he admitted to himself as he placed the leather bag on the ground and crouched down next to his captain, that he was an even worse healer. He could dress a cut and stabilise a fracture until a healer could be found, but this? This was truly beyond his abilities. He knew that it was at the very least embarrassing for a ranger, but in all honesty he didn't even like to _see _blood.

And Valar, but there was a lot of it.

"Sir, I..."

"Go join Minastan," Captain Daervagor told him, already rifling through the bag. "There is not much we can do that the twins didn't. Go."

Which, of course, meant that the captain felt just as helpless as he did, but was too stubborn to admit it. Tarcil gave Halbarad's still body a last look before he did what he was told. The younger man looked terrible, even younger and paler and more fragile in the sunlight than he had looked in the cave, and what was visible of his body was either bandaged or swathed in the captain's cloak. Tarcil turned and moved over to the tree line. They may not have been followed, he told himself. The others would join them soon, with Estel, and Lord Elrond's sons would work their magic, and they would all go back to the village and then back home.

And right after that Sauron would admit the error of his ways, repent, reform and join a monastery.

Oh yes, Tinalad had been right, he admitted to himself. He was spending far too much time with Hírgaer.

A moment later, he fervently wished for either or both of his friends to be here with him, because he had barely reached the trees when he heard the sounds of someone moving through the brush, nearing their position. It was more than just one someone, actually, and Tarcil moved further to the right, torn between fear and worry and a strange sense of relief. If those were the orcs, then at least it would be over. He _hated _waiting. The sounds drew closer and closer, and he pressed his back against a tree, unsheathing his sword once more. There were flecks of dried orc blood on it, and Tarcil was staring at them, trying to calm his breathing, when Minastan joined him, sliding into place next to him as soundlessly as a wraith.

Minastan cocked an eyebrow at him, looking preposterously calm, and Tarcil couldn't help but feel that it was a bad sign that the older man wasn't even trying to communicate a battle strategy to him. Then again, what would he have told him? 'You circle right, I circle left, and we will join up twenty yards further down the hill while the enemy stands perfectly still and doesn't move'?

The noises grew louder and then were almost upon them, and Tarcil was already half-preparing himself for a Famous Last Stand when Minastan suddenly cocked his head to the side and stepped around the tree. Knowing that it must have happened and his comrade had finally snapped under the pressure, Tarcil grasped his sword more tightly and followed him, fully prepared to defend the lives of Captain Daervagor and Halbarad to his not-so-very-distant last breath.

Luckily for everybody involved, he ran almost straight into Naurdholen.

Tarcil could feel how his entire body relaxed in sudden relief. He couldn't even be cross with the other ranger as he raised a slightly condescending eyebrow at him – Elbereth Gilthoniel, he could have _hugged _him. They were _safe_, or as safe as they were going to get in the near future.

"If you do that ever – _ever _– again, I will tell Nestir exactly who was responsible for trampling his precious herb beds," he said, meaning every word of it and yet something entirely different.

The other man just raised his eyebrow even higher – something Tarcil had never been able to do, no matter how hard he'd tried – as he sheathed his weapon and clasped both of them on the shoulder. Two more rangers moved past them, fanning out.

"You wouldn't. You were with me, and had had just as much to drink as me."

"Mutually assured destruction," Minastan said dryly. "Very nice."

"Indeed," Naurdholen agreed. "Are the two of you all right? Where is Captain Daervagor, and Aravir and the elves and the others?"

"We lost the others somewhere in the caves," Minastan summed up a rather more complex situation. "Captain Daervagor is over there. Please tell me you have Belvathor with you."

For a second, Naurdholen looked confused, but then he seemed to realise what Minastan meant. Belvathor was Nestir's brother, and even though he hadn't had his brother's formal training, he knew more about the healing arts than Tarcil and any other three rangers put together.

"You found them?" Naurdholen asked, half-turning back around. "Belvathor!" he bellowed. "Over here, on the double!" Tarcil realised that he must have stared at the other ranger, aghast, because Naurdholen turned back around and told them apologetically, "Do not be alarmed. We swept the area before we approached. There are no signs of pursuit, and no orcs linger in the vicinity."

"Ah," Tarcil said, rather faintly, suddenly feeling quite silly indeed.

"And to answer your question, yes, we did find Halbarad," Minastan went on. "We wanted to carry on and try and find Estel, too, but then we were separated from the others and had to ... well, let's say make a tactical retreat."

"Thank the Valar," Naurdholen said. "Frankly, that is far better than anything I'd hoped for. How is he?"

Tarcil looked behind him, where he could just see Captain Daervagor kneeling in the grass, another ranger now crouching next to him.

"Let's just say that we need Belvathor. And Nestir. And the Lords Elladan and Elrohir. And, possibly, Hasteth, even though I hesitate to say it."

Behind Naurdholen, a large hazelnut shrub moved violently, and a second later Belvathor burst through the sturdy branches, looking like a slightly startled young bird. Tarcil grinned at him, relieved, and a second later the three of them were hurrying back towards the centre of the clearing. Belvathor hadn't needed any additional explanations and was already loosening the straps that secured the bag containing his healing supplies at his belt. By the time they had reached the captain and Halbarad, he had the bag in his hand, and he dropped it next to the one Tarcil had brought earlier as he went down to his knees next to Captain Daervagor who barely seemed to notice their arrival.

"Sir. Let me help."

The captain looked up, blinked, and suddenly seemed to slump.

"Belvathor. You made it."

"We did, sir," Belvathor assured his superior, using a calm tone of voice that he must have lifted straight from his younger brother. "We all did. We didn't lose a single man and had to content ourselves with taking out a few stragglers. But now, move a little to the side and let me help him, sir. I am not my brother, but I will do what I can."

Captain Daervagor looked reluctant but then loosened his hold on his son a little and shifted, allowing Belvathor access. The younger man quickly pushed back the fabric covering the wounded man, and that was the point when Tarcil found something else to do and, more importantly, someplace else to be. He could inflict wounds but not look at them afterwards – he could even see his own blood, in Elbereth's name, but not another's? There clearly was something wrong with him.

But even if there wasn't, Tarcil knew that he couldn't have watched this. This was Halbarad, the boy whom he had always seen as the very _annoying _younger brother he'd never had, and in no possible world would he ever had stood next to his unconscious and bleeding body and watched, helplessly, while others tried to help him.

A moment later he had reached the tree line and joined the others who were establishing a perimeter around the glade. He found himself standing next to Naurdholen, who was instructing his men to spread out a little further, pointing down the hill and and to the west. The rangers he was speaking to nodded and hurried away. Tarcil blinked and looked at the sun, suddenly finding it unbelievable that he was standing here, looking at a rather idyllic scenery and being very surprisingly alive. Only ten minutes ago, it certainly hadn't looked very likely.

"You really lost nobody," Tarcil said, almost wonderingly. "I can scarcely believe it. _We_ couldn't even make it back to our fall-back point. I hope the two guards we left there are all right. We used some sort of side exit; I doubt I would recognise it now."

Naurdholen shrugged and raised a hand to rub a small scratch on his forehead.

"None of us have a worse injury than this," he pointed at the small injury. "We couldn't get through. The tunnels were all blocked after a few hundred yards. We never saw any fighting and only encountered a few single orcs. To be perfectly honest, it was hardly fair, and not even very satisfying."

Tarcil looked at the sunlight glistening on the bright green leaves and had to fight to keep his voice level.

"You were lucky. Luckier than us."

Naurdholen, who was usually not a particularly modest person, only nodded.

"I know, Tarcil. Trust me, I know." He was about to say more, but couldn't, because suddenly his lips stretched into a smile so wide that it should have split his face in two. "Then again? I think I'm not the only one who's been lucky today."

For a moment, Tarcil didn't know what he was talking about, but then he followed the other man's look and saw the movement at the main entrance to the cave. Movement was actually too small a term for it, because suddenly there were people everywhere, spilling outside and immediately moving to secure the area. Some looked unscathed, some had bandages adorning various parts of their bodies, but all of them looked gloriously alive. A moment later Tarcil saw Tinalad and could finally release the breath the hadn't realised he'd been holding – he really hadn't been sure just how many of his friends would get out of this thrice-cursed cave alive. His friend was joined by Aravir, who, by the looks of it, tried to impose some sort of order which was made harder by the sloping ground. By now Tarcil was wearing a grin to match Naurdholen's, because Aravir had been in their group, and if he had survived, then there was a chance for the others, too.

The first stretcher was manoeuvred through the cave entrance now, the men carrying it cautiously navigating the treacherous terrain. It was a makeshift thing, haphazardly thrown together from pilfered orc spears and cloaks, which didn't make it any easier. Even Tarcil's sharp eyes couldn't detect who was on the stretcher, but it was barely out of the cave when the next one appeared, this one flanked by one of the twins and Lord Legolas. The second twin appeared a moment later, all but carrying someone who very much looked like Lhanton. Behind them came Haldar and Hírgaer, followed by Ereneth who was carrying the foot end of another litter.

Tarcil's first impulse was to jump up and down and yell and wave, but he guessed that would have been highly unprofessional, not to mention unworthy of a ranger. He didn't need to alert the others to their presence anyway; this was the fall-back point, after all, and the first men were already beginning to scramble down the hillside below the cave and up again on their side. Naurdholen clapped him on the shoulder, still grinning like a loon, and Tarcil tilted his head and looked at the leafy canopy of the trees around them and the beams of sunlight filtering through the branches.

They had survived. They had bled and they had fought and they had lost good people, but they had survived, in the end.

Tarcil felt how his grin stretched even wider. Elbereth, but he really hadn't seen that one coming.

**TBC...  
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_gwanûr (Sindarin) - (twin) brother  
dúnadan (S.) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
A elenath Elbereth (S.) - By Elbereth's stars  
In yrch gwenn. Far, Elladan. (S.) - The orcs (are) dead. Enough, Elladan.  
harucholor (S.) - 'wound-closer', a healing herb_

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**_**So, they got rescued! Yay! Wait, what do you mean, that doesn't make it all right? I think it's a big step in the right direction! Yes, I AM aware of the fact that Legolas and the twins wouldn't NECESSARILY agree, but, well, they can be so unreasonable sometimes... *****g* No matter. The next chapter will be here in anything from five weeks when I'll be getting back from Italy or the Beginning of Eternity, because yes, I know that I can be a little ... scatterbrained sometimes. One might even say disorganised. *g* Be that as it may, it will have worried and angry twins, exasperated rangers, even more worried and angry elf princes, and more H/C and angst than you shake a stick at. Oh, and Celylith will be making an appearance. I kind of missed him, the dear slightly demented wood-elf. Again, thank you for your patience and all your reviews, which are, of course, loved, cherished and much appreciated!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**...and apparently FF-net doesn't show you somebody else's email address anymore. No big surprise there - stupid page always liked to make my life miserable. So I guess I'll use the PM feature to reply to reviews until I can think of a better way to do it, because that's actually a lot of work.**

**My apologies to Asia, Tringa, Babschwi, Juniper, Jenny and Mia for not replying to your reviews. I appreciate all of you taking the time to review and critique, so if you'll either leave your email addresses (can you still do that?) or log in the next time, I will gladly include you in the replies next time. Thank you! **


	29. And All Their Glories Past

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Hey everybody! I'm back, which is something of a miracle, I'm sure... So, the excavation went well, even though we all went a little bit crazy, but that's completely normal. Too much work, too much sun, not enough privacy, that's unfortunately how it always goes. Oh, and this time, also hand puppets. One was a tiger, and we named him Patroklos. He was helpful. Yeah, right, don't ask. *g***

**Oh, and I just spent 95 EUR on computer repairs, which kind of explains why this update is kind of late. The annoying thing is that, three years ago, I bought this laptop BECAUSE of the video card, because you can't go wrong with Nvidia, can you? I mean, they make GOOD video cards. Or that's what I always thought. Turns out that it's a production error, meaning that every single computer that has this particular card eventually overheats because of shoddy workmanship. So I had to pay a lot of money – no guarantee, of course -, didn't have a laptop for three weeks, AND now they tell me that even though it's working again, I should better not do anything too strenuous like playing a video game or, oh, I don't know, watch too many videos. And even if I do all that, chances are that it will break down again within the next year or so, because the problem is essentially still there, and unfixable. Wonderful, really. I would start hating HP, even though it's not really their fault. They just used a bad video card. Grrrrr.**

**But at least the data was still intact, so here I am! I am also kind of on a roll here, which means that in the time that I couldn't get to parts of this chapter (three weeks!), I planned the rest of the story, complete with times and dates and scenes and stuff. So, we're in chapter 29, right? (which is perversely long, btw) I guess I can say that this story will be about 35-38 chapters long. More or less. Approximately. That's the closest I can get at the moment, but I think it's about right.**

**So, and here we are, the next chapter is here, and Celylith is back! Yay! (even though I think that the rangers wouldn't necessarily agree) Apart from that, as mentioned, there is more angst than you can shake a stick at, because Haldar and the twins and Legolas start to realise that everything has gone really, REALLY wrong. But they have a plan! Yes, exactly – be afraid, be VERY afraid. *g***

**Also, this story is rated PG-13, or whatever equivalent FF-net has come up with. There are good reasons for this. Some of those are discussed in this chapter. So, if the (rather vague, but still) mention and discussion of torture and abuse disturbs you, better skip the middle part. Because, you know, orcs are orcs and act as orcs will. And Skagrosh is not a very nice person at all.**

**Still, I hope you will enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think.**

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Chapter 29

In times of crisis, they said, it all boiled down to two options: Fight or flight. You could also try to freeze and do nothing, but that wasn't really a choice at all because sooner or later you still had to choose one of the two, since doing nothing was never really an option at all.

However, what Haldar had learned the older he got was that there was a _third _option: Laugh. Or cry, but _that _was a choice rather unworthy of a ranger. But really, what was he supposed to do sometimes? Chaos had descended around him and had left him apparently the only sane one. In the case of the twins and Prince Legolas, that was nothing new (elves were by nature strange and mercurial), but even reasonable people like Captain Daervagor or Belvathor had fallen prey to this mysterious affliction.

And, Valar, it seemed to be catching, too.

Seeing that he had reached the village square, Haldar reined in his horse and took a second to pat the animal's dusty coat. He brought up his other hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. Countless days of surviving on a couple of hours of sleep a night were catching up with him now, not to mention the aftermath of half a bloody day of having so much adrenaline saturate his body that it could probably last him another year or two. He was _exhausted_, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that made you want nothing more than curl up and sleep for a week or two.

But no matter how exhausted he was, he knew that he would not sleep tonight. As soon as he closed his eyes, there were pictures flashing through his head, most notably of the men he hadn't been able to save in the end. He knew that it would be a long time before he'd be able to close his eyes without seeing Torthagyl's face in front of him, so serene in death, or Herion's or the faces of all the others. He knew that they'd got off lightly, that it could have been so much worse and that they'd been downright lucky. They had found Halbarad and Estel, and both of them were still alive, if only just, but right now it did not feel like a victory. It felt like everything else had over the past months, like a battle won that preceded the loss of the war.

"Haldar!"

Haldar almost fell off his horse. Later, he would claim that it was all due to exhaustion and not due to the fact that he had been thoroughly surprised. Partly, it was true, but if he was entirely honest with himself, it was mostly because Hasteth, freak of nature that she was, had suddenly appeared next to his horse out of nowhere, grasping its bridle. Haldar's horse was not the gentlest of creatures – though it did pale next to Prince Legolas' demon horse –, but she knew better than to cross a healer. She tossed her head but did nothing else, and so Haldar clung to the animal's mane and did his best not to let his distant cousin see how close he had come to being unhorsed.

"Hasteth," he acknowledged.

He wanted to say more, but for the life of him, he did not know what. He looked about himself, trying to discover where Captain Daervagor and the elves were dismounting. They had arrived about two minutes ago, but the village had already descended into complete and utter chaos, as any place was wont to do when thirty-one people suddenly appeared without warning, five of them badly wounded and a lot of them with lesser injuries. The only thing he could think of was to point her into the direction of where Halbarad and Estel were, but he couldn't see either of them or the captain, and suddenly his headache was escalating and his eyes felt as if someone had rubbed a handful of gravel into them.

A small but strong hand touched his knee, and he looked down, into the clear grey eyes of Hasteth. Her sharp gaze swept over him and took in his appearance, and her eyes narrowed at what she saw.

"Eru, Haldar, but you look terrible."

Haldar smiled at her while he forced himself to let go of his horse's mane and prepared to dismount.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, cousin. I can hardly think of anything I would rather hear a healer say to me."

Hasteth didn't look overly apologetic. Then again, she rarely did, and as far as he knew, she didn't overly care about what other people thought about her or her bedside manner.

"You do. Now get off this horse before you fall off, and tell me what is going on here."

Haldar, not to be outdone by his horse in matters of common sense, did as he was told. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he found that he was just as exhausted as he had surmised, and he wasn't overly surprised when his knees buckled without warning. He managed to hold onto his horse's saddle, upsetting the beast, but by the time that Hasteth was reaching for him to steady him, he had regained his equilibrium.

"I am all right," he said, ignoring the small healer's concerned questions. "Truly, I am. We have to find the captain and Lord Elrond's sons. Halbarad and Estel need your help far more urgently than I do."

"You found them?" For a second, Hasteth sounded truly delighted, before she turned her gimlet-eyed stare towards him once more. "You can take me to them in a second, after you have explained to me how you came by _this_."

She poked him in the chest, just above a cut that he had successfully hidden from both Belvathor and Aravir. That feat would have been slightly more impressive if the two of them hadn't been so preoccupied with saving Estel's and Halbarad's lives. They _had _noticed his very, very badly bruised forearm, but had clearly discounted it as his just rewards for upsetting distressed elf lords. Hasteth poked him again, more gently now, and glared at him.

"Did someone try to cut your throat?"

Haldar looked down at his chest and the cut running diagonally from his left collarbone down to below his sternum. It had finally stopped bleeding. He had managed to hide it under his cloak the entire day, and yet Hasteth had managed to spy it in under a minute. She really had freakishly sharp eyes, and an iron will that would put the Dark Lord himself to shame. He had once had a nightmare about her using her powers for Evil, but it had been so traumatic that he wasn't inclined to try and recall any details.

"Haldar?" the healer demanded again, apparently quite unperturbed by the way that people hastened to and fro behind her back. "_Did _someone try to cut your throat?"

Haldar tore his eyes away from the wound and the crystal-clear memory of a long orcish knife arcing towards him and shook his head slightly to disperse it before he looked up.

"Yes," he said curtly. "Someone did, unsuccessfully as you can see. I was faster."

Hasteth, being no stranger to violence, didn't flinch at that. She only glared at him a little more evilly, as if this was all his fault, and pushed the cloak to the side, raising dark eyebrows as the wound was more fully revealed.

"This is deep, Haldar," she said, letting the cloak fall back into place. "You will need a few stitches at least. Let me..."

"No," Haldar interrupted her as gently as he could and pushed her hands away. It wasn't hard, considering that she was at least a foot shorter than him. He wobbled for a second, his other hand reaching blindly for his stirrup, but he managed to regain his footing before Hasteth could swoop down (or rather, up) on him like an avenging beast of Mordor. "No, Hasteth, I am fine. It will keep. I promise you I will come to you later and submit to any treatment you deem necessary, but now we have to look for the captain and the others. Believe me when I tell you that Lord Elrond's sons need you, and urgently so."

Hasteth, the Valar bless her stubborn little heart, did not argue.

"All right," she conceded. "Now, tell me what happened."

Haldar ignored the request and took a moment to lead his horse over to the side and tie the reins to a pole next to a trough in front of one of his houses. Giving the animal one last pat, he turned and started to all but drag Hasteth back towards the chaos behind them. His cousin would have none of it, of course. She stopped in the middle of the village square and grabbed the arm of one of the rangers hurrying past them. The man, who was even taller than Haldar, looked down at the small woman standing in front of him in surprise but was silenced by the look of menace that she directed at him. It said quite eloquently that yes, she was at least a full head shorter than him, but that she was a being of limited patience who possessed the unparalleled ability to make his life miserable.

The man all but gulped as he recognised her. Haldar felt vaguely insulted, because even he, in authority second only to Captain Daervagor now that the commander was dead, couldn't have achieved this kind of instant obedience in under two seconds. You had to be a healer or a power-hungry megalomaniac, he guessed, knowing that the two were in no way mutually exclusive.

"Healer?" the ranger asked politely, which contrasted starkly with the yelled questions and shouts and the chaos of people and horses hurrying to and fro in the flickering light of a multitude of torches.

"Where is the captain?" Hasteth asked, drawing herself up to her full height.

"I..." the man began, but Hasteth cut him off almost immediately.

"We must find him _now_," she stressed. "You must take us to him and the elves immediately. And you," her hand snatched the sleeve of a boy just hurrying past, "find my apprentice and bring him to us. We will be with the captain and Lord Elrond's sons. Tell him to bring me the large brown chest; he will know which one I mean." The boy blinked at her, and she released him and gave him a little push. "Quickly now, lad!"

The boy nodded and ran off, and Hasteth turned back to the man in front of her, eyebrows arched in a way that clearly stated that she did not understand why he was still just _standing there_. The man gently extricated his arm from her grip, clearly afraid he might receive a push himself, and gave her a somewhat nervous smile.

"I saw them over at Commander Cemendur's ... I mean, at Bania's house a couple of minutes ago," he said. "I can take you, if you wish it."

"No." Hasteth shook her head, already turning into the direction of the building in question. "We'll be fine. Find one of the elders and tell them that I need hot water and the brightest lamps and candles brought to Bania's house."

The man nodded his assent and was gone a moment later, and Haldar had to hurry his steps to catch up with his cousin who was already several steps ahead of him. Within moments they had wound their way around horses and rangers and villagers and reached the other side of the square. It took only a few seconds longer to reach the house in question, yet getting to the entrance proved a much more difficult venture since there was more than half a dozen horses blocking the way. Stepping around the agitated animals, Haldar pushed Hasteth in front of him and herded her towards the entrance, ignoring the annoyed look that she shot him. The mere thought of having to report to his family that he had allowed Hasteth to be trampled to death by a panicked horse was enough for cold sweat to appear on his forehead.

They managed to avoid death by agitated horse and reached the door that was guarded by Tarcil and Tinalad. The two young rangers gave him a nod and Hasteth a slight bow, and the door was opened before they had even reached it. Hasteth accepted such behaviour as her due and swept past them without a word, but Haldar stopped next to them, placing one hand on the carved wooden door-jamb in a manner that he hoped looked nonchalant instead of exhausted.

"Well?" he prompted, hoping that the word itself would be sufficient. The doorpost was reassuringly solid, and the exhaustion inside of him reared its ugly head once more and threatened to drag him under. For the moment, he really wasn't up to formulating more complex questions.

The two young men seemed to understand, and judging by the way they were using the wall of the house or, in Tinalad's case his spear, to remain upright, they were feeling as wrecked as he.

"They were still alive when they were brought inside a few minutest ago," Tarcil answered for the two of them, instinctively grasping what he wanted to know most of all. "Halbarad slightly more so than Estel, or so I understand."

Haldar felt how his heart did a somersault inside his chest.

"What are you saying, Tarcil?"

Tarcil, realising that he was moving on thin ice that was right now cheerfully splintering under his very feet, shrugged and looked beseechingly at Tinalad, who clearly refused to do anything but guard the door. Talking to irate superiors, his expression stated, had not been part of the deal.

"You know that I know nothing about the healing arts," the younger ranger told him. "I do not have the ... aptitude ... for it. But I have seen enough injuries, Haldar. He is in a bad way, even worse, I'd say, than he was when we got him out of the cave. The ride here has not helped matters at all."

Eru Ilúvatar, yes, the slow ride here, Haldar mused, his grasp on the door-jamb tightening. The elves had almost come to blows over the question of whether or not it ought to be attempted at all. Neither Halbarad or Estel nor the other two wounded rangers hovering between life and death had been up for it, but in the end, all of them (and even Prince Legolas) had agreed that they really didn't have any choice. If they didn't try to make it back to the village, they would have to make camp somewhere close to the cave system, where the four of them might very well die during the night no matter what.

Haldar was reasonably sure that he would never forget even a single second that he had spent in the cave, most prominently the moments when he had stood next to the prince in the cavern with the underground lake and faced the orc captain, Estel hanging lifelessly and bloody in the creature's grasp. He would never forget the unholy light gleaming in the orc's eyes as it looked down upon its broken captive. He didn't pretend to understand how this particular orc thought or acted, nor did he want to, but there was one thing he did know: This orc was vicious and determined and it was _clever_, and if they gave it even the slightest chance, it would find them and have the horde slaughter every single one of them during the night.

The best they could have hoped for then would have been for Estel and Halbarad to die with them and not to be recaptured. And really, those weren't very good options even by the standards of their company.

"No, it wouldn't have, would it," he muttered, mostly to himself. The ride itself had been a nightmare of urgency and fear and checking repeatedly that the makeshift litters didn't come apart at the seams, but it had been necessary and they had made it. Though he had to admit that the last two hours had taken at least a decade off his life. He shook himself and determinedly pushed the memory away. "The captain and the elves are within?"

Tarcil looked at him as if he had asked the most stupid thing imaginable, and, actually, he just might have.

"They are," he affirmed. "Bania left to find Hasteth, which," he shrugged, "is rather superfluous now. The captain ordered us to stay here and keep everybody out." Haldar raised his eyebrows, and Tarcil hurried to add, "But I am sure he did not mean you, Haldar."

Haldar almost smiled. Tarcil was strangely squeamish when it came to injuries – highly unusual for a ranger, really –, but he wasn't stupid.

"What about Belvathor?" he asked.

"He is trying to figure out where to put the rest of the injured," Tinalad spoke up, idly scratching a cut running diagonally down his left cheek. Fresh blood trickled down the side of his face and disappeared into his already matted beard, and the father in Haldar wanted to slap his hand away and scold him. "One of the more seriously wounded did not look good at all. I think Belvathor will have him brought here so that the elves can try ... whatever it is they do."

Whatever it was that the elves did, Haldar reflected. He didn't really know himself what 'it' was, but he didn't really care anyway. As long as they saved Halbarad and Estel, they could be performing unspeakable rituals of dark magic for all that it mattered to him.

"All right," he said instead of voicing these thoughts. He knew that he should try and establish some sense of order, possibly before the village just imploded, but, Valar, it was hard to think. "Hasteth sent for her apprentice a few minutes ago. He should be here soon with supplies, and somebody else should be bringing candles and lamps and hot water and Eru knows what else. Escort them in, but make sure to announce your presence beforehand. If one of the elders wishes to enter, please come and fetch me; the same goes for Belvathor. For anybody else, this house is off-limits until the captain or I say otherwise. Understood?"

The two of them nodded. Haldar wasn't entirely sure if their wordless acquiescence was due to his natural authority (unlikely), their own weariness (more likely) or their fear of Captain Daervagor and the elves (infinitely more likely). Right now, he didn't even care. Haldar gave both of them a nod as he reluctantly pushed off the door-jamb, cursing silently at the quite incredible pain shooting through his bruised forearm, and made his way inside.

For a second, the cosiness of the small, unlit entrance hall perplexed him. Haldar hesitated, but then he got a hold of himself and told himself he was being an idiot, because Bania's home was small and there was only one place where they could have brought Estel and Halbarad: The lounge, where the commander's body had been laid out before the funeral and where Captain Daervagor had kept watch during the night.

Haldar walked down the short corridor towards the light and noise emanating from the lounge, but even if he had wanted to enter the room, he would have been quite unable to do so. He was equally unable to keep his mouth from dropping open in astonishment, because if he had thought that outside there had been chaos ... well, this was worse.

It was not what one would call 'chaos' per se, of course. He wasn't sure if Elves tolerated chaos at all – he rather doubted it –, but he _was_ sure that sons of Elrond didn't, especially not in front of him. So, the term 'ordered activity with a very, very strong, underlying sense of panic' would probably be more appropriate. Haldar swallowed, his throat going very dry. Before, he had been too busy and stressed to really pay attention, but the sense of panicked fear was so strong in here that it hit him like a wave of cold water.

He had seen the elves fight in the caves, and while their fury had been terrible to behold, this was a thousand times worse.

Haldar frowned, trying to figure out how seven people, two of them unconscious and grievously injured, fitted into the small room without adding yet another wounded one to the count. Somebody – Haldar guessed one of the elves – had pushed the few pieces of furniture over to the side where they remained, looking unsteady and crooked. The space that had thus been cleared was mostly occupied by the two stretchers and what looked like most of the medical supplies between here and the Misty Mountains. How the elves, Captain Daervagor and Hasteth were not standing on top of each other, Haldar seriously did not know.

Haldar remained where he was, leaning against the open door. The captain and Hasteth were kneeling next to the one stretcher he supposed was Halbarad's, while the Lords Elladan and Elrohir were crouching next to the other one, half-obscuring the two _dúnedain_ behind them. Prince Legolas was hovering somewhere in the middle, looking as much out of place as Haldar felt, but projecting a sense of fierce purpose that very clearly said that he didn't intend to move even an inch in the near future. As Haldar was watching, one of the twins – he had given up trying to figure who was who once and for all – moved to the side and stood, taking with him the long grey cloak that had been serving as a blanket.

Haldar felt how all blood left his face in a rush. He wasn't squeamish and he had even seen worse injuries in his time – granted, most of those had been on dead men, but the fact remained. The only thing that still made him feel sick to his stomach was to see women or children hurt, and no matter how much he still thought of Estel as a very, _very _young man, he was hardly a child. It wasn't even that he hadn't seen him since they'd found him; he had, of course, but the boy had always been surrounded by Lord Elrond's sons and his friend and his body had been covered with cloaks and bandages and so he had hardly caught more than a glimpse or two.

As it turned out, that had been a kindness. He wasn't squeamish, Haldar repeated to himself firmly, he really wasn't, but this ... this really only awoke inside of him the kind of cold, decisive fury he had earlier seen on the twins' faces. If there had been an orc nearby, he would have cheerfully torn its head from its shoulders. Things being as they were, Haldar was left to bitterly accuse himself.

This should never have happened. He should have found a way to prevent this, even though, honestly, he had no idea how he should have managed it. If Estel – no, he thought almost defiantly, if Aragorn, son of Arathorn – died tonight and the Line of the Kings with him, then it would by extension be his, Haldar's, fault. _He _had brought the boy here from Rivendell, or had at least not prevented him from coming. _He _had not made him return home when it became clear that they were all in over their heads and in danger. The boy was not even twenty-four years old, but he, he was almost fifty. He should have known so much better.

Ilúvatar above. Lord Elrond would _kill _him if he ever saw him again.

Then again, he amended quickly, maybe the elf lord would be cheated of that pleasure, because his sons would pre-empt him. The twin who had just stood up was making his way over to him, managing not to step on anything or anybody else in a way that had to be elven trickery. He was still holding the blood-stained, slightly torn cloak that seemed to belong to his brother or him, and in Haldar's eyes he was looking as if he was right now contemplating letting go of it to wrap his fingers around Haldar's throat instead.

Right now, Haldar would have let him.

"Haldar," the elf said. Haldar decided that it was Lord Elladan, not his more diplomatic brother, simply because of the dark, impatient sparkle in his deep grey eyes. "Mistress Hasteth said that her apprentice should be arriving momentarily?"

"He should," Haldar assented, inordinately relieved that a strangulation attempt seemed to have been given up for now. "But the village is in an uproar, and he might need another few minutes." The elf's eyes narrowed in obvious displeasure that deepened as his twin hissed something in Elvish under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse, and Haldar hurried to add, "Several others are seeking him as we speak. Tinalad and Tarcil and standing guard at the front door, and they will let him pass as soon as he gets here."

The elf looked unimpressed. Haldar didn't mind, since that was the other's default expression when in his presence.

"I hope he hurries," the older twin said, in a tone of voice that suggested that he was already planning just what he could do to the boy in case that he didn't. "Mistress Hasteth needs all the help that she can get." He paused, then added, softly, "And so do we."

Haldar looked at him and the heartfelt, soul-deep worry and _fear _in his eyes, and for the first time since he could remember, he truly felt for the elf. They had started off on the wrong foot, Lord Elrond's sons and him, with them unable to forget that he was the one who had dragged their little brother away from the safety of Rivendell and with him ... well. It had taken a while until he had admitted it to himself, but a part of Haldar saw the two elves as a substitute for every one of the Firstborn who had taken Estel – or rather, Aragorn, son of Arathorn – from his people and the life he should have led. The two of them had the kind of relationship with Aragorn that, by rights, should have belonged to Halbarad as his cousin, or – in a more perfect world – to any additional children Lady Gilraen might have borne her husband. Rationally, he knew that Estel was happy, and that Lord Elrond and his people had given him the kind of safe, protected upbringing that the Rangers never could have, but the boy should have been with them, with his people, with _humans_.

It sounded terrible even in the privacy of his own mind, and it was not meant entirely as narrow-minded as that. But at least part of the boy's problems in general, and most definitely a large part of his problems with the captain, had its source in the fact that, at the end of the day, he was too elvish. Estel spoke Sindarin and Quenya better than he spoke Westron, Haldar knew that for a fact, and in his way of thinking and his manners and his air he was entirely too much like his foster-brothers. He even resembled the twins, slender and dark-haired and grey-eyed as he was, but while those were characteristics shared with a vast majority of the Dúnedain in general, there sometimes was a light in his eyes that was, frankly speaking, not entirely human. It was just too _intense_ for a man, whispering of joy and pain and darkness and wrath and kindness and despair and love, all wrapped up into one fell glimmer, and the paradox was enough to give Haldar a headache. How Elves managed this and stayed sane throughout eternity, he did not know, but a half-grown boy certainly shouldn't be able to project such an air.

But it wasn't his place to judge and he really tried not to, and so he had accepted the elves' hostility in as graceful a manner as he could manage. But now, for the first time, Haldar felt his heart to go out to one of the elf-lord's sons, because the utter misery in Lord Elladan's eyes was the same he himself had felt when his brother Belen had been found dead. He might not truly understand the ties that bound these two immortal beings to his dead captain's son, but the naked fear and pain in the elf's eyes was something he could relate to only too well.

"Tell me what to do, my lord," Haldar said softly, trying to communicate his willingness to help without making it sound too much like pity. "Whatever I can do to help you or your brother, I will do it gladly." He swallowed and lifted his gaze, locking eyes with the still elf, and said what, under any other circumstances, would have felt entirely too much like the oath he had given his captain when he had pledged his life and service to the Rangers. "Command me, my lord, and my men and I will do what you ask, _whatever _you ask."

Lord Elrond's son looked at him for what felt like an eternity, and Haldar felt as if the two of them were alone in the small, cramped room. Then the elf blinked and the sounds of the small sitting room washed over them again, and Haldar watched as he inclined his head the tiniest bit. For the first time, he felt as if he hadn't been weighed and found wanting in some fundamental way.

"There is nothing you can do, ranger, and nothing your men can do either," Lord Elladan said in that flat, dead tone of voice that was so much worse than anger ever could have been. "And I am not sure that there is anything Elrohir or I can do, either."

"My lord..." Haldar began, feeling how his throat closed up in sheer terror.

"He is still alive, Haldar," the elf hurriedly went on. "But there are limits to our abilities. My brother is more gifted in the healing arts than I am, more gifted than your cousin or young Belvathor, surely, but he is not my father. _I_ most certainly am not."

"But surely you..."

Haldar trailed off once more, unable to put his thoughts into words. He was not stupid, however, and he knew as well as the next ranger about the healing abilities that the Heirs of Elendil were said to possess. He knew that Estel must have harnessed that power, and successfully at that, for all that it could have killed him. It wasn't the _athelas _alone, of course; any idiot could throw a few dried leaves into boiling water. In lesser hands, it was just a sweet-smelling herb that eased pain and promoted healing, and not the powerful, almost miraculous tool that it could be when used by the Heirs of Númenor.

But surely the sons of Elrond must possess some of that power as well? They were the boy's cousins, after all, many generations removed, and ... Valar they were the _sons of Elrond_. The elf-lord possessed healing powers beyond those of even the most gifted of his long-dead twin brother's descendants, and he must have passed some of them on to his sons. Haldar refused to believe anything else. They were elves, they were Lord Elrond's sons, they would save Estel, and the sun rose in the East.

The alternative was far too terrible to entertain, for all of them.

Lord Elrond's older son looked at him, almost sympathetically, and Haldar once again witnessed how age-old understanding clashed with eternal youth in the Eldar.

"We are not without some power, Master Ranger," the elf said quietly. "We need time, and _athelas_, and all our skills and all the luck in Middle-earth, but we will do whatever we can and whatever we must to save our brother. His injuries are terrible, but he is strong and stubborn and has much to live for. With any other man, this couldn't possibly be enough, but I know my little brother, and I know that he would never let an orc get the best of him. And," he added, with the sort of steely, terrible determination that, in the time of his ancestors, had brought entire realms to their knees and re-shaped the known world, "I will be damned if I allow them to take him from us as well. That – will – _not _– happen."

Haldar, like any other ranger worth their salt, knew – in bare essentials, mind you – what had happened to Lord Elrond's wife these many centuries ago. It had been long before his time, before his great-grandfather's time, even, but the consequences of Lady Celebrían's departure (namely the twins trying to kill every orc on this side of the Misty Mountains and themselves in the process) had been embedded in the collective memory of the Rangers. Everybody knew that an enraged elf-lord was something terrible to behold, but in just a few short years the twins had managed to set new standards. And – of this Haldar was very, very certain – losing their mother to the Undying Lands would be nothing compared to the twins losing their human brother to the Gift of Men, here and now and in this way.

"Then tell me what I can do, my lord," he said, as determined as the elf in front of him that Estel live and that the orcs not win this. They wouldn't, and before this was over, he would rip out the heart of that thrice-cursed orc captain through his bloody _throat_, and that was a promise. "I know that I am no healer, but there must be _something _I can do to help."

The elf cocked his head a little to the side before he quickly turned back to look at his brother, who had just muttered another curse. The kneeling twin shifted to the side in an attempt to hold both onto a bandage he had either just applied or was in the process of unwrapping and a small crystal vial filled with a dark liquid, and Haldar could see a glimpse of a heavily stained bandage wrapped around Estel's right thigh. The cold anger in his stomach turned into an even denser little knot of pure fury, and Haldar had to avert his eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe he should ask Lord Celylith for advice on how to kill the orc captain in as painful a way as imaginable; if he judged the silver-haired elf correctly, he was someone who was willing to invest a lot of thought and planning into such matters.

Lord Elladan turned back to look at him, grey eyes shadowed, and seemed to reach a decision.

"Actually," he began, "there might be something you can do to help. Except make sure that nobody comes in here and starts asking questions, that is."

'Asking questions', the elf made clear by his tone of voice, was in this case a sin equal to Collaborating With the Dark Lord, if not worse.

"Tinalad and Tarcil will let no one but the elders pass," Haldar reiterated. "And even they will not be allowed to come in here without your express permission."

The elf nodded soundlessly. He turned his head, suddenly looking shifty, and Haldar felt how – even after everything that had happened over the past few days – cold sweat broke out all over his body. Elves were problematic to deal with as a general rule, but _shifty _elves were nothing short of a catastrophe impatiently waiting to happen. Lord Elrond's son glanced behind him again, and this time Haldar realised that he wasn't looking at his brother or Hasteth or the captain, who was kneeling on the ground with his unconscious son's head in his lap, but at Prince Legolas. Haldar would have liked to close his eyes. He had seen terrible things today and killed quite a lot of orcs, but he was not desperate or exhausted enough yet to gladly tangle with King Thranduil's son and heir.

"We need more space, Master Ranger," Lord Elladan said. "And we will have to do a few things in the course of the treatment that will be ... unpleasant. If you would take the prince with you when you left, we would be most grateful. If you could convince the captain to leave as well, it would be ideal, but I would rather expect a Nazgûl to see the error of his ways."

Haldar raised his eyebrows at the elf, for a moment quite incapable of speaking. Hasteth's apprentice, a skinny boy of about eighteen or twenty years, chose this moment to burst into the room, a large wooden chest cradled in his arms, but he did nothing more than give both of them a nod. He shouldered his way past them and made his way to Hasteth's side.

"I think," Haldar said, trying to choose his words carefully, "that the chances of a Nazgûl seeing the error of his ways are much, _much _more greater than those of the captain leaving Halbarad's side."

"I know," the elf admitted. "He can do nothing to help us, really, and there are things I would not wish him to witness, but I have known Daervagor since he was a lad of three years of age. He is as terminally stubborn as Estel. I would not ask you to attempt the impossible, son of Baranor."

"Yet you ask me to attempt to separate Prince Legolas from the rest of you," Haldar retorted. "I have to admit that I do not know him as well as you do, but I doubt he'll see the logic of any argument I could raise with him. You might as well ask me tame a fell beast of Mordor."

"Come now," the elf muttered, more to himself. "That would be far easier and hardly a challenge at all."

Haldar shot him a look that would have caused even the most battle-hardened human warrior to quiver in his boots. Half-elven warriors, however, were made of sterner stuff, and the elf only looked back at him, completely unimpressed.

"I will convince him," Lord Elladan went on. "You just have to take him with you and deliver him into Belvathor's waiting arms." Haldar must have looked openly disbelieving at that, because he added, "Diving into freezing lakes while you're still recuperating from serious injuries is, as it turns out, not a very intelligent thing to do, even if you _are _an elf." He frowned, mock-thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, though, it is a very Silvan thing to do."

Haldar knew far better than to get involved in the eternal Noldorin vs. Sindarin/Silvan Elves battle that had probably been raging between the sons of Elrond and Prince Legolas ever since some well-meaning but ultimately misguided person had introduced the three of them a couple of millennia ago. Whoever that person had been – personally, he suspected King Thranduil or the fabled Lord Glorfindel, because Lord Elrond Peredhil was one of the Wise and simply wouldn't _do _something like that –, Haldar was very certain that they deeply regretted it by now.

Oh yes, he thought, suddenly distracted, it was highly likely that it had been Lord Glorfindel. Judging by what he had heard about him, that would have been something the golden-haired warrior would have considered _funny_, and probably some sort of epic payback for transgressions long past..

"I will make him see reason," Lord Elladan went on, oblivious to his thoughts. "If I am not successful, I will let Elrohir have a go. That should do it."

Haldar was still not convinced, but he knew better than to show it. Besides, just then Lord Elrohir shot him a quick look that clearly conveyed the idea that his presence here was at best a nuisance, if not a true disturbance that would have to be dealt with in a very definite way. It also eloquently stated that the younger twin considered him, Haldar, to be responsible for his brother's short moment of distraction, which just wasn't fair in Haldar's opinion.

"All right," he finally gave in. "I will take him to Belvathor, wherever he may be. I will even do my best to convince him to stay there. The rest is up to you, my lord."

'And good luck to you, too,' was what he didn't say, but he probably thought it so loudly that the elf in front of him had no problem hearing him. Lord Elladan shot him what could only be called a filthy look, narrowed his eyes at him and turned on his heel.

The next few minutes were the most uncomfortable of his entire life, and he did count the first time he had been dressed down by Captain Daervagor as a very young warrior, the interview with his father-in-law when he had asked for his daughter's hand in marriage, and, more recently, the indeterminable time spent in the orc cave. Lord Elladan and Prince Legolas were arguing in hushed, quick Quenya, a language of which Haldar understood a handful of words at best (and most of them of the kind best not to be repeated in front of ladies), complete with angry hand movements and the kind of heated looks that should have set each other's hair aflame.

The argument was slightly hampered by the fact that the older twin had returned to his brother's side and was doing medical things that Haldar, a man with a rather deep-seated aversion to healers, refused to contemplate, especially considering to whom they were being done. Captain Daervagor had been snapped out of his trance sufficiently for him to be handing Hasteth and her apprentice whatever tool they needed, but he was steadfastly ignoring the three elves, if he was even aware of their presence. Hasteth's young apprentice was too awed and busy to do more than bow his curly head and concentrate on his work, and Hasteth liberally divided her displeased looks between all three of them. Still, considering that Lord Elladan was convincing the son of King Thranduil to do something he very much didn't want to do, it took no time at all. It couldn't have been more than maybe a minute before the fair-haired elf hissed something that couldn't be anything but a heated insult of the twins' character and heritage, threw them both an evil glare that both of them ignored, and stalked over to the door. It wasn't easy to stalk across a completely packed room without stepping on anybody, but for an elf it seemed to be no problem at all.

A moment later Haldar flattened himself against the wall so the elf could move past him into the hallway. The elf stopped next to him, looking back into the small room, eyes riveted on the two dark-haired elves who once again almost completely obscured the too-still form of their human brother. Haldar saw that the area around the elven prince's right eye was heavily bruised. The dark discolouration covered the entire cheekbone and disappeared into the blond hair that had long ago escaped its neat braids and now hung down onto the elf's shoulders in a wild and rather un-elven tangle.

The prince didn't seem to want to move, and so Haldar weighed the possibility of death-by-elven-knife against the need to find Belvathor and the promise he had given the older twin. It was a close call, because death-by-elven-knife would be an exceedingly stupid way to die after everything that had happened, but duty won in the end. He gently and carefully placed a hand on the elf's shoulder and removed it just as quickly when he felt the other stiffen at the touch.

"Come, my lord," he said in his most reassuring tone of voice. "We need to go. We are blocking the way."

First, he thought the elf hadn't heard him or was purposefully ignoring him, but then Prince Legolas turned, and his look of fear and pain and helplessness and soul-deep, banked fury was so terrible and familiar that whatever Haldar had wanted to say curled up and died before the words had even formed. For a moment, the proud and cool exterior that the elven prince wore like a mantle cracked, and Haldar glimpsed the profound misery that was written in every line of the elf's body.

"All this, and we still might lose him," Prince Legolas said, eyes huge and silver-blue and pained like he had never seem them. "I cannot help him. He lies there, dying, _and I cannot help him_."

Haldar wasn't yet fifty years old, but he had seen many people die, his comrades and his opponents and those whose only crime had been being at the wrong place at the wrong time. No matter how often he had had to stand by and watch and do nothing, he still didn't know what to say to comfort those left behind. The older he got, the more he suspected that there simply wasn't anything anyone _could _say.

"No, you cannot," he finally simply said. "And neither can I. We will have to trust in Lord Elrond's sons."

"I do," the elf told him. It sounded very much as if he was trying to convince himself. "I do, I really do. The twins have saved my life more times than I can count. But..."

He trailed off. The cool mask reappeared in an instant, though now that Haldar knew what to look for, he could still see the stress and fear and sheer underlying terror on the elf's face. The prince turned away, unable or unwilling to look at either the room or Haldar anymore, and the move was so oddly reminiscent of the ranger's young son when he was wishing for the monster to go away that he had to close his eyes for a second and clear his throat.

"Come, your Highness," he said once more, taking a last look at the room and its occupants. Hasteth seemed to have things more or less in hand, but the twins' shoulders were tense, and he could see Lord Elrohir's hands as they pressed down on something, both of them covered in blood almost to the wrist. Then the other elf moved across his line of sight, and Haldar turned away. "We would only distract them now. Let us help those we _can _help."

The set line of the elf's bruised jaw said what he really thought of that, but he was a warrior and a leader and Mirkwood's crowned prince, and Haldar suspected that there wasn't much that he didn't know about sacrifice. A silent nod was all Haldar received and all he had expected, but both of them stopped when the door at the far end of the corridor opened and Tarcil ushered in a man and a woman. The man carried what had to be the world's largest pitcher of steaming water and two large basins, and the woman an armful of lamps and candles. Tarcil looked at Haldar questioningly, and he nodded, gesturing at them to come closer. The prince and he quickly moved down the narrow hallway and into the small entrance hall to let them pass.

The two villagers moved past them with only a nervous look at the prince and a nod at him, and soon after Haldar heard Hasteth's voice, probably telling them where to put their burdens. Not waiting for the villagers to return, Tarcil nodded at the two of them and stepped back out.

Haldar was about to follow him, thinking that he should get a move on before his body decided to sabotage all future action by fainting where he stood, when he found himself stopped by the look that Prince Legolas gave him, eyes unreadable in the darkness of the small entrance hall.

"I wanted to..." the elf began. He shook his head and ploughed on, determined. "Thank you, Haldar, for all that you did for him. We have not always seen eye to eye in the past, I know, but … thank you. Without you or your men, we would not have found him."

Before Haldar could come up with a reply, the elf had moved past him and opened the front door. The noise from outside came rushing into the small space, and Haldar found himself arrested by it for a second, unable to move with his body screaming in exhaustion and pain and his mind reeling with fear and urgency and what could only be termed well-suppressed terror.

He knew that he should be pleased by the elf's words, that this was proof that the prince may not wish for him to die a fiery death and soon, at that, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Unless Estel did the impossible and lived, unless Halbarad and he beat all the odds and cheated death and probability and maybe fate, none of this would matter, because they would still have lost them and the war and their people's entire future with them.

And the elves … well, they would tear themselves and the whole Angle apart in their desire for revenge, and he would only be able to stand aside and watch the inevitable unfold.

Well, he thought savagely as he followed the elf outside and into the chaos enveloping the village, that would not be a pretty sight, but it _would _be a monument worthy of the last of the Line of the Kings. It would be something that no pyre and no memorial, no matter how magnificent, would ever be able to match, because they were Lord Elrond Peredhil's and King Thranduil's sons and of the ruling Houses of the Noldor and the Sindar and what they didn't know about vengeance was not worth knowing.

That thought should have been far more comfort than it actually was, and all Haldar could do was keep his hand steady as he gently closed the door behind him.  
**  
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**

It was another two hours or so until dawn, and Legolas couldn't have slept if his life depended on it.

If one was to believe Hasteth, Belvathor and the other healers, he needed rest. Legolas almost snorted rather inelegantly. He was his father's son and, almost more importantly, frequent patient of Hithrawyn, his father's (insane) master healer at the palace, and was therefore rather immune to the threats of healers, be they elven or human or Dúnedain. It was a fact that he knew annoyed Lady Gaerîn and the other healers of Rivendell to no end.

But really, if you had seen Mirkwood's master healer _and _Lord Elrond in a rage, what more _was _there that could possibly scare you? Not a lot, really. Compared to that, not even Hasteth was worth losing any sleep over.

If he could have slept, of course.

Legolas sighed and leaned his head against the wooden pole that was already more or less holding the rest of his body upright. The very last thing he needed now was to collapse where the stood, or rather leaned. If he collapsed before the rangers did, he would most likely die of the shame of it. Haldar at least was still up and conscious, even though the man had been ordered by his cousin to sit down and rest. It had been rather amusing to watch the tall _dúnadan _being reprimanded by Hasteth, but it had quickly ceased being so when the woman had rounded on _him_.

So he had suffered to have his own injuries seen to, mostly because it would do Mirkwood's reputation no good to be seen running away from a human woman who didn't even come up to his sternum. Said injuries turned out to be far more numerous than he had realised, which didn't come as much of a surprise because ever since he had seen Estel tumble over the edge of that lake he had stopped really seeing anything else. The scene was being replayed in his mind over and over again, slowed to a fraction of its actual speed and with the shock and surprise on the young man's face standing out against the background like the light of a candle in a dark room.

He had got him out of the water, Legolas knew that, and he had even managed to get the reckless idiot to start breathing again, but that didn't seem to matter. That one scene was crystal-clear in his mind, branded into the insides of his eyelids, and small matters like sword cuts and bruises and reopened stitches and old burn wounds paled into insignificance against it.

For a human, his injuries would have been bad enough to condemn him to a lengthy recuperation in some lonely bed or other, but for an elf – and a driven elf at that –, they were nothing but an inconvenience that had to be dealt with, but briefly, please. Hasteth and Belvathor had fussed and tutted at each other in outrage, but when they had tried to make him lie down and rest, they had come up against the steely resolve that was entirely Thranduilesque, at least according to the twins. There was no way, absolutely no way at all, that he would rest before he knew what was going on in that little house right next to him. The stray thought carried him to the memory of small dark rooms and despair and grief that hung thickly above the entire dwelling, speaking of Bania's loss that was still so recent. Worse still, it conjured up the sight of the twins' eyes, wide and bright with panic.

If their past experiences were anything to go by, then scenes of blood, chaos and imminent doom were nothing new for Elladan and Elrohir. He had _seen _them in said scenes of blood, chaos and imminent doom more times than he could count, more times than were conducive to the peace of mind to either of their fathers. And yet he really couldn't remember a time when they had looked so horrified, down to the very cores of their being. He had worn that look himself and seen it on the faces of his warriors, namely whenever any of them had been crouching next to a dying comrade and desperately been trying to soothe them, telling them in disregard of all reality and truth that _everything would be all right, shhh, relax, close your eyes, the healers will be here in a moment_.

An iron hand closed around his heart and squeezed, and Legolas pushed off the pole, the weakness of his body forgotten. Sharp pain erupted in his left side and shot up into his shoulder joint and down his left leg as the freshly-sewn cut was jostled by the sudden movement, and the leg threatened to give out. Legolas ignored it and deliberately took a step as if daring his body to quit now, eyes squeezed shut against the images of too many dead elves, people he had been responsible for, and, more painful yet, the image of Estel's broken and bloody body and the horror and panic and soul-deep fear in the twins' grey eyes.

Elladan and Elrohir didn't panic. They just didn't. They were old and experienced enough to deal with almost anything, and he knew what it meant to see them like this, so utterly lost. He wanted to deny it, to tell himself that they were their father's sons and could help anybody recover from anything, but it just wasn't true. Nobody was all-powerful and omniscient, and no one was truly immortal save Eru and the Valar. Elves died and Maiar died, and so did stubborn humans in whose veins flowed blood of the both of them.

Black hopelessness rose up to envelop him, and Legolas took another step forward until he bumped against a horse box, one of three that made up the small stables next to Bania's house. A graceful white head immediately appeared next to him, bright eyes studying him intensely, and he didn't even think before he leaned his dishevelled head against Rashwe's neck. The horse's white coat gleamed even in the sparse light that the single lamp hanging next to the entrance cast, and Legolas closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of horse and hay and a lush summer night. He felt the pulse throb strongly in the animal's neck, and only his pride stopped him from opening the box's door and throwing his arms around Rashwe's neck.

If the horse could have patted his head, it would have, he was sure about it. Things being as they were, Rashwe merely nosed his right shoulder in a calming manner, and Legolas found himself smiling against his will.

"It's a trick," a voice behind him announced, and Legolas felt how the breath caught in his throat. It wasn't embarrassment – he dared anybody, and that included the twins, to comment on his behaviour – and it wasn't surprise, but rather the kind of dread that paralysed you in mid-motion. "It's only pretending to like you. Next thing you know, it will be trying to bite through your carotid artery. The next step would be taking over this part of Middle-earth."

Legolas slowly turned towards the voice, cheek still pressed against Rashwe's reassuring warmth. True, his body was close to complete rebellion, but he couldn't have mistaken that voice.

"Elrohir," he began, taking a step to the side and ignoring Rashwe's irritated snort, "you know that I love you like a brother, but I swear on my mother's own name that..."

"He is alive," the dark-haired elf quickly supplied, pre-empting whatever Legolas had wished to threaten him with. "For what it's worth, he is that."

Legolas took another step closer to where the other elf was standing next to the crooked door of the stable, all weakness and pain forgotten for the moment. His left leg and the rest of him knew better than to bother him right now, and if he hadn't had the dull memory of pain and weakness and trembling muscles, he might have forgotten about the injury completely.

"Elrohir," he repeated, for once not caring at all how pleading and desperate he really sounded. "_Please_."

The dark-haired elf took a step forward, and in the flickering light of the small oil lamp Legolas could see that there were dark circles under his eyes. They were almost black and so deep that he looked as if someone had punched him in the face, repeatedly and very hard. His hair was even more dishevelled than Legolas' own, a rat's nest of tangles, half-braided tresses, a few leaves and what looked like caked blood. There was dried blood under his fingernails, too, and Legolas felt how his heart skipped another beat.

Elrohir held his gaze for a moment, eyes blank and large and grey as slate, before he lowered his head, all strength seemingly draining out of his body.

"What do you want me to say, Legolas? That he will be all right? That everything will be just fine? I can't. Elbereth knows that I want to, but I can't."

Irrational anger surged inside of Legolas, and he glared at the other elf, silver-blue eyes flashing.

"Is that what you think, Elrohir? That I want you to lie to me? That I want you to _protect _me from the terrible truth that I couldn't _possibly _bear?"

He took a wobbly step closer to to his friend, but stopped short of invading his personal space. That would not end well, not in the mood the two of them were in at the moment.

"I will let you in on a secret, Elrohir, _ion Imladris_. I am the crown prince of Mirkwood. I have led our forces into battle more times than I can count. I have lost warriors, elves I have called friends and comrades-in-arms, to orcs and wargs and spiders and trolls and human attackers. I have sent those selfsame warriors to their deaths, knowing full well that they would most likely die, because that was _what I had to do_.

"I have knelt at the side of dying friends and held their hands and soothed their dying fears, because that was _what I had to do_. I have made the hard choices, the kind where both options are the bad ones, the kind that you know will inevitably end you up on the losing side, with all that matters being how much of your soul you lose. I have done all this and more, because that was _what I had to do_. This is what it means to be a Captain of Mirkwood, a realm besieged by a darkness that you of Imladris can barely even understand. I know my duty well, Elrohir, to my father and our realm and my warriors and my friends. Do not _dare _to imply that I would wish to close my eyes and pretend that everything is well. It never is, not in Mirkwood and not here, in this Valar-forsaken part of Arda that seems to know only death and fear and despair."

Elrohir had raised his head again, his face tightly controlled, and Legolas shot him a look so dark that it should at the very least have bounced off his forehead.

"If he is dead, tell me. If he is dying, tell me. If he is so grievously injured that he will never again open his eyes, if he is maimed for life, if he has lost his mind, for Eru's sake, _tell me_. I can bear anything, but not this thrice-damned ignorance. I understand why you sent me away earlier. I was in your way; I distracted you. But I am not now, and I will not go away until you tell me just What. Happened. To. My. Friend."

For a second, it looked as if Elrohir wasn't about to answer. But whatever faults the Noldor possessed, never let it be said that they were cowards. He exhaled in a long breath and answered.

"You are right. My words were ill-chosen, _mellon nín_, and I apologise for them. I meant to imply no such thing, and your anger is ... understandable, at least. But..."

"But I should not have taken it out on you," Legolas interrupted his friend. "For that, I am sorry. Please, just tell me how he is. That is all I want to hear."

"No, Legolas, you don't," Elrohir told him in as serious a voice as Legolas had ever heard him use. "You don't want to hear this. I am not being overly dramatic."

"Maybe not," Legolas agreed, leaning against the main pole between the horse box and the door where Elrohir stood. "But it's what I have to hear. Tell me, Elrohir, for pity's sake."

Elrohir looked at him for a moment longer before he lowered his eyes, studying his hands, as if looking at Legolas was just the one thing he could not bear on top of everything else.

"He's not well," Elrohir finally said, clearly choosing his words with care. "He is … well, you did see him when we found him."

"I did," Legolas admitted. It was an image he would hardly ever forget. Not that he had needed more reasons to hate the orcish race, but … well. This had transcended his hate into something more potent, something more akin to true rage that he knew he would have to get under control, and fast.

"Be glad that you didn't see the rest," Elrohir told him, voice clipped and brutal. "If he survives the night without developing pneumonia, I think we may have a chance. If he does develop it..."

He trailed off, and even though everything inside of Legolas rebelled against the thought of asking a healer for details when he looked at you like this, the fair-haired elf swallowed painfully and forced himself to ask for clarification.

"What will happen then, Elrohir?"

"He will slip away," his friend told him softly. "And all we'll be able to do is ease his passage and hope that he dies in as little pain as possible. You and I know how stubborn he is, but he doesn't have the strength to fight this off right now."

Even though he had known that something like this would be coming, even though he had been expecting it, Legolas was still not prepared actually to hear it. The stable and Rashwe and Elrohir disappeared while the soft yellow light of the single lamp seemed to expand, swallowing everything around it until the edges of the bright circle turned dark and the straw-covered ground fell away into nothing. There was something solid at his back that was holding him up, but that, too, seemed to wobble and bend, and all Legolas could concentrate on, all that he could hear at all, was Dead. _Dead_. Mortals died of things like these. Aragorn had already almost died more times than he could count. Aragorn, whom he very rarely thought of as anything but Lord Elrond's son and the twins' brother, but who was still mortal, could die of this.

Eru help them.

"Legolas!" That was Elrohir's voice at his elbow, and Legolas felt how a pair of hands grasped his shoulders, shifted their grip as he hissed and tried to pull away from the pain in his freshly-stitched left shoulder, and started to shake him slightly. "Breathe!"

But he couldn't, not for the life of him, because all had been for nothing. All the fear and the urgency and the sacrifices and the sheer, desperate hope and they had come to _this_. Aragorn was dying, and he had _failed_. He had failed his friend and his people, and in what he had sworn to himself in many a sleepless night, namely that he would see to it that, this time, Aragorn returned home unharmed. He had allowed the orcs to steal him away from them, had allowed Sauron's spies to just take his friend like that, and, Elbereth, Lord Elrond would _kill _him.

In the end, his body, weary by his continued lack of co-operation, overrode whatever tenuous control he maintained over it and breathed for him. Oxygen didn't really seem to quiet his panicky, riotous thoughts. He hardly felt Elrohir draw him into an embrace, but he couldn't have resisted if he'd wanted to. He came back to himself an eternity later that couldn't have been longer than a minute at the most, sitting on the straw-covered ground in a rather graceless heap and Elrohir clinging to him like some sort of limpet.

"...and you tell me that we Noldor like being overly dramatic," said limpet was saying just now. "Really, you Sindar could give us a run for our money. If you had been so good as to actually listen to me for once, you would have noticed that I didn't say that he _will _die."

"No," Legolas agreed to Elrohir's apparent surprise, who hadn't seemed to expect him to be aware of what he was saying, "He just very well might. I know you, Elrohir, and I know that look on your face. You expect him to die."

Elrohir shifted slightly, crouched on the floor as he was, and the look on his face was so terrible and dark and full of despair that, for just a second, Legolas felt his breath catch once more.

"Yes," the twin admitted in as broken a voice as Legolas had ever heard him use. "Yes, I do." Legolas was about to turn away, but the other elf stopped him with a hand closing around his uninjured forearm, long, calloused white fingers digging into his flesh in a way that, on any other day, would have been quite painful. "But that doesn't mean that he will, Legolas. I expected him to die in Baredlen, when that creature Teonvan had him and when the two of you went on that harebrained rescue mission of yours. I expected him to die in Aberon, when he almost drowned after getting himself cut to pieces. I watched him almost die then, more than once."

Legolas was about to inject some sort of protest that that was hardly the same things, but then he refrained. At last for the latter incident he could hardly be called an objective observer, having been gravelly injured himself at that time.

"I am a healer, Legolas," Elrohir went on, some of that despair on his face muted and transformed into a sort of grim determination. "I always expect things to go wrong. I am always anticipating complications. But I also know Estel. He doesn't know how to give up. Right now he is holding his own, and Elladan is helping to keep him with us. If there is a chance, any chance at all, the two of them are far too stubborn not to take it, you know that."

Legolas did know that. Aragorn's stubbornness was easily matched by his oldest brother's, and the two of them united in some sort of common purpose was a fearsome thing to behold.

"He is … mortal, Elrohir," he still said, trying to put an entire world of meaning into the four words. "He is not us, he is not Elladan. He cannot … he could die..."

"And he will," Elrohir interrupted him almost cruelly. "One day he will die, and nothing you or I or _ada _can do could stop it from happening. He is mortal, and he will die in due time. But," he added, seeing the look on Legolas' face, "if he is anything like Elendil whom he resembles so much, he still has a good _yén_ and a half or so, even considering all the years that lie between them. Do not despair just yet, _mellon nín_. I wish I could give you more hope, but know that he is not dead yet. And if Elladan and I have anything to say about it, he won't die just yet either. He is our brother, and I will be damned into the pits of Angband and back before I let an orc take another member of my family."

Legolas was silent for a moment, the hand that Elrohir had released grasping mindlessly at the straw covering the ground.

"Then tell me what they did to him, Elrohir," he finally repeated, lifting emotionless eyes to lock with the twin's slate-grey ones. "This is the last time I will ask. You have been in my situation, and you know as well as I that not knowing the details is by far the worse fate."

Elrohir was about to argue, but then seemed to give up, either agreeing or not possessing the energy to continue the discussion.

"There is an old stab wound to his sword arm; it seems that this is how they disarmed him when they captured him," the younger twin began, voice so disconnected that he might as well have read aloud from a textbook. "It's not very long, but deep, and it looks as if it's been torn open repeatedly. There are also at least some cracked ribs on the left side of the torso, and I think one broken one, and enough shallow cuts and bruises and abrasions to last him a regular human lifetime. And his wrists, of course … the cuffs lacerated them very deeply. I think we managed to get to it in time, so I don't think he will lose any mobility in either hand, or at least not much. But it will be a long time before he will truly be able to use his hands, or hold a sword."

He fell silent, and Legolas couldn't bring himself to interrupt him. He knew that these injuries were not bad enough to bring even a human to the brink of death, at least not one as young and strong as Estel, and he dreaded what else he would hear.

"They must have had at least one warg. I wish I'd killed it, animal or no," his friend continued in as dead a tone of voice as he had ever heard him use. "There is a bite wound to his right thigh, a deep, badly infected one at that. It could have been worse, considering how warg bites usually turn out, but with his general weakness and the blood loss, it's what worries us the most. He might even lose the leg. It's too early to tell, really. If he does die, this is what will kill him, this and the cold water."

Legolas tried to adjust his world view to Aragorn, weak and helpless while a warg tore into him to the jeers and cheers of its watching orc handlers, but his imagination baulked at the task. There were tears in his eyes, and he brushed them away impatiently, angry at himself and the orcs and the world at large and even the Valar themselves.

"What about … on his chest...?" he tried to force himself to concentrate and think, and yet failed to put his thoughts into words, horror and helpless fury choking him.

"You mean where they skinned him like you would a dead rabbit?" Elrohir asked, voice cracking once more. "We cleaned the wounds, but it was done …. it was..." For the first time, the other elf truly faltered, and Legolas only didn't reach for him to try and comfort him because he knew that any kind of touch would, right now, be answered with violence. "They are infected, of course, and there was a lot of damage. We cleaned the areas as well as we were able, and used _athelas _and one of _ada_'s more inventive ointments. Time will tell."

"If he lives."

"If he lives," Elrohir agreed. It was silent for a moment or two. The only sounds to be heard were the soft conversation of the two rangers who had taken over Tarcil's and Tinalad's posts at the front door of Bania's house, Rashwe's occasional movement and the noises of the night animals and insects.

"Did you see him? The orc captain?" Elrohir went on, and for a second Legolas was so thrown by the change of topic that he couldn't reply.

"Yes," Legolas then replied. "I did. He is tall and strong for an orc, with dark skin; there is some uruk in him, I would say. He escaped in the mêlée. I almost got him with my knife when he used Estel as a shield, but my aim … I was afraid to hit Estel." In truth, he had been so incandescently furious at that particular moment that he couldn't have kept his wrist steady even under more ideal circumstances. "I know his face, and I will remember it. And mine will be the last thing that worthless creature will ever see."

"They must have been close to escaping when you caught up with them," Elrohir commented almost off-handedly.

"They were," Legolas admitted. "Two more minutes, and they would have been beyond our grasp. They would have been gone, and Estel with them."

Elrohir didn't answer and only closed his eyes, turning his head away. There were tears at the corners of his friend's eyes now, too, but he did nothing to try and brush them away.

"I will kill him, that thrice-cursed spawn of Morgoth, that blight upon the face of Ennor," Elrohir went on around gritted teeth, positively shaking with hatred and fury. "I will hunt him down like the lowest form of creature imaginable, like the _filth _he is, and I will carve open his chest with my fingernails and rip out his soulless heart!"

"Elrohir..." Legolas tried to calm his friend, for even though he understood the sentiment, he could see that the other elf was one step away from collapsing where he sat. However much of his energy and strength he had given trying to keep Estel alive, it had likely been too much.

"No, Legolas!" Elrohir interrupted him, the anger in his voice even magnifying. "You did not see what I saw. What that … that thing did to him – the thought of anybody hurting Estel, _my little brother_, in such a way, it is … inconceivable. Intolerable. Unpardonable. Only somebody's blood can atone for it, and _I_ – _want _– _**his**_. And I will have it, Legolas, I swear this to you on my House's honour and my own."

Legolas only looked at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then Elrohir's hate-filled words came together with what he knew about the orcish kind after long years of fighting them, and with what he had heard from former orc captives and what he had learned from his history tutors. Added to that, the looks the orc captain had given Estel when they had found them took on an entirely new meaning. The words he had whispered to his captive and which had provoked him, Legolas, to such new heights of fury returned to the forefront of his mind.

He felt how his blood turned to ice in his veins.

"What is it you are saying, Elrohir?" he asked in his most controlled tone of voice. If he lost his composure now, there would be no getting it back, not with the amount of soul-blackening hatred and wrath fighting for control inside of him. "Do you mean to say that … that Estel … that they..."

He trailed off, unable to put his suspicion into word. Elrohir turned back to him, tears falling now from his eyes, unchecked and unhindered, and the misery and helpless fury in his eyes were really all Legolas had to see. The horror welling up inside of him must have been visible on his face, for Elrohir reached for him once more. This time, the other elf's fingers were shaking.

"No," Estel's brother told him quickly. "No, Legolas, not that. Never fear. Not that. But there are some … scratches, like those made by long fingernails or claws. And bruises. Hand-shaped bruises, and finger-shaped ones. There are a lot of them, and … they are not only on his arms."

Legolas opened his mouth, couldn't think of anything to say, closed it again and was silent. He made a second attempt, his thoughts frozen in a continued loop of horror and guilt.

"Valar." That was as far as he got.

Next to him, Elrohir finally reached up and brushed a hand over his eyes, wiping away the tears. He was dry-eyed now, and almost eerily calm in comparison to his earlier outburst.

"Yes."

"Are you … are you sure that...?" Legolas tried again.

"As sure as we can be, yes," Elrohir told him, that calmness still firmly in place. "It seems that it didn't go … quite … that far. We will know more when he wakes up."

Legolas didn't know what to say to that. Any step down that road was too far – by a long shot too far –, and the mere thought of that orc touching his friend in any way, shape and form was … unbearable. He forcibly wrenched his thoughts away, because apart from giving him nightmares, this would _not _help Estel in any way.

"When can I see him?" he asked finally.

"When you have rested and we must not fear that you collapse at his bedside," Elrohir said smoothly. The answer sounded rather practised to Legolas' ears. Seeing his impatient look, the twin added, "Tomorrow morning, if everything goes well. There is no need to pester me on this, Legolas. I will not yield."

It was a testament to Legolas' exhaustion that he only very briefly entertained thoughts of rebellion. In the end he only nodded slightly and returned to his previous dark thoughts.

"We never should have allowed him to come here," he said after some moments, mostly to himself. "We should have tied him to a tree, or sent him to your grandmother."

"It was his decision," Elrohir retorted, sounding infinitely tired. "These are his people. He was right about one thing, you know. How can he ever be their chieftain, their leader, if he does not share their pains and joys and perils? How can he ever be his father's son – Arathorn's son – if he knows nothing about his own people?"

"I find," Legolas said, holding onto his calm with iron strength of will, "that I hardly care. He came here because we let him, and now he lies in that bed, close to death and only alive by the grace of the Valar and your and your brother's stubbornness and skill, and who knows what that … that _creature _did to him before we found him."

"I know," his friend retorted. "And I will regret this to the end of my days. And still I am right. Coming here was the right thing to do, the _only _thing a man like Estel could do, really. And you know it." Legolas did know it, but that didn't really make it any easier. "Estel is strong," his brother continued. "He will overcome this."

"If he lives."

"If he lives, yes," Elrohir agreed again. He seemed to slump, his strength apparently having been spent on telling Legolas the entire gruesome truth. With a clear show of inner strength, he gathered the last remnants of his energy and sat up slightly, forcing himself upright. "Halbarad is doing reasonably well, by the way. They whipped him mercilessly, and he has some broken ribs and a lot of cuts and bruises, and terribly abraded wrists, but if his fever doesn't get out of control and if he gets through the night without complications, he should heal. We did what we could to ensure it."

Legolas tore his thoughts away from the memory of his friend's torn body and dark, dark images of soon-to-be-exacted vengeance. Despite his preoccupation and horror, he felt a slight blush of embarrassment creep up his bruised cheeks. He had forgotten about Halbarad so entirely that the young man might as well have never existed at all.

"I am glad to hear it," he said, and he was. He liked Aragorn's cousin well enough, even despite the young man's sometimes rather worrying tendency to hero-worship the twins, and under any other circumstances he would have been genuinely worried about him.

Now, however, he really found it hard to care about anything but Aragorn lying in a bed no more than twenty yards away, unconscious and close to death.

"Daervagor is with him," Elrohir continued, seemingly not noticing his sudden embarrassment. "How he is still on his feet, I will never understand. But never let it be said that the captain is weak-willed or easily persuaded."

Legolas would never have wished to say any such thing, and would rather have used the term "obstinate". Celylith, he was sure, would have expressed his opinion in far less diplomatic terms.

"Elladan and I are still worried about the boy's breathing; it sounds too laboured as it is, and it might be some sort of pulmonary infection. It wouldn't come as a surprise, with the caves as damp and cold as they were. And while Halbarad is young and strong, he was also in their hands for over a week. It's a miracle he's still alive at all."

"I am glad for the captain," Legolas told his friend at that, and again it was the truth. "First to lose his best friend, and then his only son … that I would have wished on no one. Certainly not on a member of Estel's family."

Elrohir looked at him at that and leaned back against the horse box behind them, oblivious or indifferent to Rashwe's presence. Exhaustion and worry and even a hint of that earlier wrath were still visible on his face, but there was something else there now, a sort of cold calculation that reminded Legolas strangely of Lord Erestor, when, across a negotiating table, he looked at you with a raised eyebrow, plotting your complete and utter destruction.

"He will not be the last one to lose people he loves," the younger twin said. "This is escaping our control, Legolas."

"We never had it under control, _mellon nín_." Legolas sighed. "Everything we did was try and rectify a situation that has long been unsalvageable. We are merely reacting, and are always one step behind them, if we are lucky. When Halbarad and Cemendur disappeared, it was at least three steps, and when Estel did as well … well, we were already far behind the last bend."

Elrohir did not try and refute that statement, though it must have rankled him.

"Ever since they took Estel, I have been thinking about little else," Legolas went on. "And … Elrohir, do you think that they took him on purpose, that they knew who he is? It was a very bad turn of luck that Estel, Serothlain, Lhanton and the others just ran into them like this."

"And that Lhanton and Ereneth just _left _him there," Elrohir interjected, ever the Noldo.

"Nobody just left anyone anywhere, you know this as well as I do, Elrohir," Legolas told him. Elrohir, truth to be told, didn't really look as if he knew anything of the kind.

Elrohir was silent for a moment, but then he shook his head.

"No, Legolas, I do not think so. Firstly, from what Lhanton and Ereneth tell us, they really only came upon them by accident, when the orcs rid themselves of Cemendur's body. Secondly, would they have allowed anybody to escape to tell us about what happened if this were the case? They could easily have pursued Lhanton and Serothlain, and even Ereneth, and it would have taken us much longer – too long, probably – to find the spot where the orcs ambushed them, and trace them from there. Thirdly, I do not think they would have given up Estel so easily if they had known that he is the very prize they seek."

"Easily?" Legolas repeated, slightly incredulous. "He fell into the lake, Elrohir! They would have had to jump in after him!"

"Yes," the other elf admitted, "but still, they never would have allowed it to go that far. They would have killed him the minute they realised that they were under attack and that there was a chance that they might lose their captive. They would have robbed us of the chance to recover him, partly just out of spite, but also because to be the one reporting the death of the last Heir of Isildur … for them, that would have been a prize beyond compare. You met the orc captain, Legolas. He is clever, for an orc. If he had realised that Estel was more than a … a toy, more than something to torture for his enjoyment and of much interest to his master, he would have killed him rather than let us retake him."

Legolas felt how his teeth clenched at the mere mention of Estel's captor. He doubted that he would ever react differently.

"What you say is sound," he admitted, much relieved. "Still, I find it suspicious that Lhanton and Ereneth should escape while Estel did not, even though both seemed genuinely distressed."

"Lhanton did save your life at the lake, just as Ereneth aided us. Without him, I doubt we would have found you in time"

"So they did," Legolas allowed. "Would they have acted thusly if one or both of them were in league with the orcs? I don't know. They might have, if they are clever."

"Of course they are clever." This time, Elrohir sighed. "They, and Hírgaer, too. That is a man I do not trust."

Legolas, who did not like Ereneth's older brother either and couldn't for the life of him understand why Estel did, thought that at least part of Elrohir's dislike was founded on the fact that Hírgaer, unlike other men, refused to be intimidated by Elrondish _looks _or the fact that they were elves. It should have been a rather refreshing attitude, and yet wasn't.

"I do not trust anybody here," he told his friend instead. "With the exception of you and Elladan, Estel and Celylith and Haldar, Daervagor and Halbarad."

"The captain?" Elrohir repeated, raising an eyebrow in faint astonishment. "That is news to me."

"I do not like him, that is true," Legolas admitted. "I doubt I ever will. If not for his connexion to Estel, he would be nothing to me but Halbarad's father and a Captain of the Ranger whose opinions and company I must endure. But by no stretch of the imagination can I conceive a world in which he would collaborate with orcs to bring about his chieftain's death, who happens to be his cousin and his dead friend's son. No, Elrohir. I trust him to want to protect Estel at any cost, and that is all I care for."

"I have thought about this constantly for weeks now," Elrohir said with a slight shrug. "I can make neither heads nor tails of it. But one thing I do know: There is someone working against us in the company, probably someone who accompanied us here to the village. It would have been stupid of him to stay behind and guard the camp."

"I agree." Legolas nodded. "But this sort of idle speculation isn't going to help us now, just as it hasn't helped us these past weeks. It could be literally anybody, and without this turning into a witch-hunt, I am not sure how we should proceed."

"We could start with making a list."

"Do you have that long of a piece of parchment?" Legolas asked wryly. "I can give you more than half a dozen names off the top of my head. Ereneth and Hírgaer, obviously – they do tend to disappear quite a lot with only the most flimsy explanations to give, don't they? And Ereneth was there when Estel was taken, as was Hírgaer when Ciryon and the others were killed. It could be both or either of them. Amlaith, behaving as he is. Serothlain, even despite his friendship with Ciryon. Lhanton, who did save my life but left Estel behind, as you put it. Belvathor and Naurdholen, who survived the attack on the village and yesterday's fight both. Cemendur and Halbarad were taken, and nothing at all happened to them. And that is just the ones whose names I actually know."

"It could also be anybody in the village," Elrohir said, apparently opting to make their task even harder. "Quite a few people have relatives or friends in Daervagor's company, like Bania did. Daervagor's men should know better than to betray sensitive information, but it would not be the first time that someone unwittingly betrayed a secret to those they thought they could trust. It could even be a woman."

"You understand what I mean?" Legolas asked rhetorically. He paused for a moment, unsure how to phrase his question, but then continued, "Is there any way to … to trace them through whatever it is that happens to Estel when he dreams? Would you not know them somehow?"

Elrohir looked at him with mild amusement.

"What do you imagine, my friend, that I pass them on the street and just see it in their aura that they have the Gift? Or that Elladan or I can make ourselves dream of them?"

Legolas was too tired to feel true indignation at the other's words, but he wasn't too exhausted for defensiveness.

"I don't know, Elrohir, because in Mirkwood we don't have to deal with things like these!"

"Of course you don't."

"No," Legolas stressed, pushing back a surge of irrational anger and the knowledge that this wasn't entirely the truth. "_We do not._"

Elrohir gave him a look that clearly stated that he expected him to lose his cool any second now, and another one saying that he would humour him, just this once. Legolas could have cheerfully hit him for it.

"Be that as it may," the dark-haired elf went on as if he hadn't spoken, "there is nothing we could try. If we could, we would have done it a long time ago. Such things are considered private by the Dúnedain, and nobody's business but those who are so gifted and their families'. It is common knowledge that Daervagor does not possess the Gift, though it is strong in his family, but that is because he is the captain and thus a prominent figure. I know of no one in Daervagor's company whose Foresight is remarkably strong – and it would have to be for this –, but that doesn't mean that there _is _nobody. And as for Estel's dreams – I don't know what to tell you either, Legolas. Elladan and I do not understand why Estel has this … this _bond_, for a lack of better word, because that is more or less what it is. But whatever it is, it is his, and nothing we could manipulate or recreate."

Legolas was silent, trying very hard not to feel discouraged by what Elrohir had told him. It had been a long shot, but he was so _tired _of sitting here and waiting for the next catastrophe to occur.

"We have to talk to the captain," he finally said. "We cannot keep reacting and being surprised by events, not if we wish to survive this. I know that it means showing our hand and what we know, but we have to start questioning people officially."

"That would spook whomever we are looking for," Elrohir pointed out. "He or she could escape before we could find them and join the orcs and the mysterious Master. And Eru only knows what might happen then."

"If worse comes to worst, they might give up and report back that Aragorn lives and is somewhere in the Angle," Legolas continued his friend's line of thought. The mere thought was enough to send a cold shiver down his spine. "Once his continued existence has been confirmed, Sauron would never stop looking for him, though he might not know his identity yet. There would be no place to hide for him, no way to live a life outside of Imladris' protected borders."

"I will not condemn my brother to such a life," Elrohir told him firmly. "It would destroy him. He would be hunted forever, with no way to escape his fate."

"What about the letter you sent to your father?" Legolas inquired. "Did you not tell me that you sent a report just before Estel was captured?"

Elrohir nodded.

"We sent a letter to _ada_, yes, but that was before Estel was taken. I am afraid we phrased our report rather more … tame than I would now. Besides, who knows if the messenger got through. And even if he did, and even if our father sends help based on our report alone – which I am confident that he will –, they could not get here for the next six or seven days, at the earliest. The messenger would have to travel very carefully, and as secretly as possible. He would arrive tomorrow at Rivendell, maybe, and then it would take at least five days to return here with help, plus whatever time the captains need to make ready. No, Legolas, we are on our own for the coming week at the very least."

"Then what can we do, Elrohir?" Legolas asked, trying very hard not to let his helplessness show. "We cannot continue as we have, and we cannot let on that we know that there must be a spy. What do we do now?"

Elrohir looked at him, eyes calm and cold and possibly even harder than before.

"Now we end this, once and for all. It has been going on long enough, and I am heartily tired of it." He paused to give Legolas a sidelong look. "What do you think about sending Celylith a letter?"

Legolas returned the look, eyebrows drawing together in a half-confused and half-suspicious frown.

"Celylith? Why would I be sending Celylith a letter? The less he hears to worry him, the faster he will recover."

"Well, he _is _your friend, insane tendencies aside," Elrohir told him, looking far too innocent. "I would think it entirely natural and understandable, given what has happened."

Legolas narrowed his eyes.

"Was is it you are planning, Elrohir? I know that look on your face." He cocked his head to the side. "Does Elladan know about this?"

"Not yet," the younger twin admitted. "Nor will he like it. But I simply do not see another way. I think it is time to bait a little trap, and I know just what kind of bait to use."

Suspicion warred with worry inside of him, and yet Legolas felt a sudden rush of elation. He knew that he would most likely not like Elrohir's plan – the twins' plans didn't have the highest rate of success, if one truly thought about it – and he knew that they would be embroiled in a fierce argument by the time that the sun rose, but still, here was the chance to finally _do _something. He was not made for helpless waiting, and the prospect of action, of doing something to end this, was enough to bring a grim smile to his lips.

"Well," he began carefully, "Coincidentally, yes, I do feel the burning need to write to Celylith. How considerate of you to remind me."

Elrohir grinned at him, a fierce grimace that Legolas had no wish to see ever again on his friend's face.

"Excellent."  
**  
** **  
** **  
**

There had been several times over the past few decades when Eldacar had regretted having acquired the reputation of a calm, level-headed and rational man. Most recently, he had regretted it when Captain Daervagor had selected him to remain behind and take command of the camp. It was an honour, of course, and Eldacar was doing his duty gladly. But he would very much have preferred to travel with the others to the village to try and find Halbarad, Cemendur and Estel. It wasn't that he was a particularly bloodthirsty man, but he had no love for the orcish race, and besides, he was friendly with the commander. It would probably have been too much to say that he and Cemendur were _friends_, but they liked each other well enough. He would have loved to be allowed to be of use, to be allowed to search for him with the others, but, well, somebody had to stay behind and guard the camp.

And so, while a part of him would have loved to emulate Prince Legolas and leave to join the rest of his comrades, the larger part of him knew that he was doing the right thing. He _was _level-headed and reliable, after all.

You could, however, take everything just the tiniest bit too far.

Eldacar forced himself not to change his expression of good-natured patience, nor to pinch the bridge of his nose. He squinted at the man standing in front of him, wishing the other ranger had closed the tent-flap behind him after entering the tent. The midday sun stood high in the sky, and the light seemed unbearably bright after having spent several hours bent over his maps, schedules and reports.

"So," he began, when it became clear that his visitor would not speak. "What has he done now, Nestir?"

Nestir gave a rather inelegant snort and collapsed onto the empty stool in front of him. His sudden movement made some of the documents piled high on the wooden folding-table flutter, and Eldacar shot him an aggravated look. Nestir ignored him with the sort of effortless efficiency that clearly bespoke of the fact that, usually, the healer was the one doing the glaring.

"That elf," the other ranger began, using both hands to re-tie his long hair in a gesture of exasperation, "is a menace. I doubt it would even be a crime if I made a mistake with the dosage and literally drugged him into next month."

"It might not be a crime, no," Eldacar admitted, fighting a smile of amusement. "Yet I wonder how Lord Legolas and the other elves would view such a mistake."

"Pah." Nestir grumbled as he wrapped a long piece of leather around his dark ponytail and flicked it back over his shoulder. "Elves. Worst patients I've ever had, and I am counting you, you know."

"It was a _concussion_!" This was a conversation they'd had quite a few times already. Personally, Eldacar thought that the other ranger would never tire of bringing up the topic. "Not a mortal injury! Since when do you have to stay abed for over a week when you get knocked on the head? We are rangers; we heal quickly!"

The healer gave him the kind of assessing look that bespoke of a neurological exam looming in his very near future, the one that questioned your ability to string more than three words together in an intelligent manner.

"You almost fractured your _skull_, Eldacar. Half an inch further to the left and we wouldn't be having this conversation, because that troll would have cracked your head open like the overripe pumpkin that it is!"

Eldacar, who knew very well that he had come close to dying (and being eaten) that day, only shrugged. He didn't doubt Nestir's words and knew that he was essentially correct, but riling the healer was one of the few true pleasures he had left.

"Be that as it may," he said, making a show of rustling the papers and suppressing a groan when his eyes came to rest on the stack of half-finished monthly reports, "I am sure that you have not come here to utter half-hearted insults against Lord Legolas' companion and then talk about the concussion I had more than ten years ago."

"Well," Nestir began,"No, but I must admit that it does hold a certain appeal. Lord Celylith is wise, I am sure, and a mighty elf lord in his own right, but he is also the most exasperation person I have ever met! You would think that I order him around for my own amusement, not in order to ensure that he heals as quickly as possible! Why would I _want _to be stuck with him for any longer than I have to? It makes no sense!"

This time, Eldacar couldn't suppress a smile.

"It does not," he agreed.

"And that _look _he keeps giving me!" the healer went on. "As if I drug him out of some sort of base inclination and not because he needs the rest to heal!"

"I thought you had started weaning him off the drugs more than a day ago?" Eldacar interjected.

"Well, yes," Nestir admitted distractedly. "Though I still give him pain medication, laced with some anaesthetic herbs in the evenings to help him sleep. But that isn't the point! He is polite, mostly that is, but he keeps _looking _at me as if I am torturing him for my own amusement!"

Eldacar, who had thought similar thoughts at one point or another during their acquaintance, thought it wise not to inform the other ranger of that fact.

"I am afraid, Nestir," he said solemnly, "that there is no law against looking at people, even if they are healers."

"There should be," Nestir declared. "And now that he is beginning to walk around, I am sure things are about to get a lot worse. A menace, that one is, and he is always arguing – politely, and that makes it even worse! He wakes up – he argues. He is not allowed to go visit his horse – he argues. He is not allowed to juggle a dozen sharp knives with both eyes closed or something similarly moronic – he argues. He is expected to drink his potion in the evening – he argues."

Eldacar shot him an amused look.

"Well, he _is _an elf," he pointed out. "The Firstborn do like to debate … well, anything, really. If you put more than two elves together, you have an argument. And," he added, holding up a hand to forestall Nestir's next complaint, "he is also alone amongst strangers and injured and in pain. Surely you understand this."

Nestir exhaled slowly and reluctantly.

"Yes," he admitted. "I do. That is why I haven't poisoned him yet."

"Come now, Nestir," Eldacar said, very close to laughter now. "He cannot be that bad."

"Oh yes," Nestir retorted firmly. "He is. I always knew that warriors make terrible patients, but elven warriors – the Valar save me."

There wasn't much one could say to that, and Eldacar was too diplomatic a person to try and change Nestir's mind. The other ranger was hardly likely to really go ahead and drug or poison the silver-haired elf, and if all he did was rant and rave now and then, well, Eldacar could live with that.

"Was there anything else you wanted, Nestir?" he asked, ostentatiously reaching for a piece of parchment with the one hand and taking up a ink-tipped quill with the other. "Because, before you barged in here, I was actually quite busy with the paperwork..."

Nestir looked up with an expression that, on another person, would have been sheepish.

"Actually, yes. Faedond bade me tell you that two riders had been sighted, moving towards the Argonath. It's two of ours. They should be here right about..." he cocked his head to the side at the exact same moment that shouts of welcome could be heard outside, "now, I think."

This time, Eldacar did pinch the bridge of his nose, after carefully setting down both parchment and quill. There was a look of exasperation mixed with very real anger on his face, and he forced himself to take a deep, calming breath.

"There are messengers arriving, most likely sent by the captain and our comrades in the village, all of whom are searching for Halbarad and Estel and Commander Cemendur, and you waste my time complaining about the elf? Really, Nestir?"

"They hadn't arrived yet," Nestir countered, looking thoroughly unapologetic. "You would have paced and worried and fretted until they did, and that would have served no one." The young healer shot him a look that was gentler and a lot more serious. "You already worry more than enough, my friend. I thought only to spare you ten more minutes of useless concern and vexation. We will find out what news they bring soon enough. And besides," he added, "that elf really is impossible. It needed to be said."

"His name," Eldacar stressed as he got to his feet, reacting to the noises from outside that seemed to be drawing closer and closer, "is Lord Celylith. Use it. You know how particular elves are about their names, especially elves made impatient with unaccustomed weakness."

"Oh, trust me, _sir_," Nestir stressed, turning to follow him, "I would never treat our guest with anything but the highest respect and courtesy." He paused. "And sleeping herbs, as it so turns out."

Eldacar had learned a long time ago that healers were a lot more easily dealt with when you just let them talk sometimes. He did just that now, and was out of the tent before Nestir could make any additional comments. Outsides, the bright daylight served to blind him for a moment, and while he was still blinking in order to adjust his eyesight, he saw a tall figure stride urgently towards him, cloak billowing out behind it. Another blink, and the figure coalesced into Tarcil. He and the other messenger had left their horses in the care of a couple of rangers who did their level best not to appear as anxious and curious as they clearly were. Of the second rider he could only see the dark-clad back disappearing between the off-white tents.

Tarcil wasn't exactly his usual cheerful self either, even though there was a guarded smile on his face. It was tempered by something dark and careful, though, and Eldacar forced himself to be calm. Level-headed and calm, that was the way to go.

"Tarcil," he said when the younger man had closed the distance between them. He stepped forward and grasped his forearm in a warrior's greeting, feeling how a relieved smile spread over his face. "Eru Ilúvatar be my witness, but it is good to see you. Are you well? We haven't heard anything from you for more than four days."

Tarcil returned the greeting and gave him a small, sketched bow, nodding at both him and Nestir.

"I am well, Eldacar. I have a message for you from the captain; Aravir is delivering another message to Lord Celylith. It was impressed upon us that both are most urgent."

Eldacar looked about him at the faces of his men who were watching their exchange, all of them looking wary and worried and anxious. No matter where he held this meeting, he would have to tell them _something _sooner or later, and he saw no point in amplifying the anxiety even more.

"What about Halbarad, the commander and Estel?" he asked, meeting the younger ranger's eyes. There was that shift again, and he felt how dread rose up inside of him like a dark cloud. "Have they been found? Or are you under orders to keep quiet?"

"No, sir. I am more than happy to answer your questions." Tarcil shook his head. He looked up at him and smiled, a smile full of heart-felt relief. "The night before last, we infiltrated the cave system where the orcs were holding Halbarad and Estel. We managed to free both of them with only moderate losses. They are both alive."

A loud cheer went up around them, and even though Eldacar found himself grinning alongside the rest of his men, he held up a hand until the noise died down. He wrenched his gaze away from Nestir's wide smile and focussed once again on Tarcil's now serious face.

"What about the commander, young one?" he asked.

Tarcil's expression turned stony.

"We found Commander Cemendur's body later on the day on which Estel was taken. We lit his pyre three days ago. I am sorry, Eldacar. We were too late."

The dread inside of him sizzled out and died, leaving a strange numbness behind. He was a rational man, Eldacar told himself, and as such had known that the chances of seeing any of the three missing men again were very slim, if not positively abysmal. But still … he had hoped. Valar, how much he had hoped.

"I understand," he said after a moment or two, simply because he had to say something. "Join me in my tent, please. Amlaith," he nodded at one of the rangers holding Tarcil's and Aravir's mounts, face rather sullen, "please see to the mounts. Is there any reason I should be doubling the guards, Tarcil?"

A quick, half-hearted smile flittered over the other ranger's face as he shook his head.

"No, sir. We were not followed, and we do not suspect the orcs in this area."

That, of course, raised the question of where the captain suspected the orcs to be and why, but Eldacar wasn't about to debate that in public. Instead, he only nodded and indicated Tarcil to follow him. He sensed the stares of his men, and even though he knew what they wished to know – _just what were "moderate losses"? Who hadn't made it?_ – he couldn't ask Tarcil, at least not now. There were many here who had friends and relatives in Daervagor's troop, and he would not have them informed of their loved ones' death by announcing it to the entire camp without considering tact or propriety.

Quickly enough, the two of them were in his tent, with the tent-flap closed as tightly as possible. Tarcil was blinking in the dim light, fingers working to open the messenger pouch strapped to his belt. He was very pale, with deep, dark rings under both eyes, and what looked like a hastily applied bandage peeking out from underneath the collar of his grey shirt. Judging by the tentative way the younger man moved his right arm, it reached from his shoulder to at least the elbow.

He was upright and seemed steady enough, though, and besides, the captain would hardly have sent a seriously injured man. There was little chance Tarcil's injury would escape Nestir's sharp eyes, though.

Tarcil straightened up, drawing a sealed envelope from his now open pouch. It didn't look thick but rather like a single piece of parchment that had been folded up into a makeshift envelope and sealed.

"The captain's message, sir."

Eldacar took the piece of parchment without a word and only quickly glanced at the impression of the seal in the wax. He would have recognised Captain Daervagor's seal anywhere.

"Thank you," he said as he set the message on his already towering pile of paperwork. "I will read it in a minute. Now tell me what you didn't say out there, please."

The stony expression from earlier laid itself over Tarcil's face once more.

"Four of us fell, sir, in the caves. Three more are badly wounded, with one at least not expected to live long past this sunset."

The part of Eldacar that was simply a ranger worried for his comrades' welfare was grieved beyond expression. Four dead, and most likely one or two more about to join them – Valar, that was a dearly paid-for rescue. The part of him that was a ranger and a leader and had been fighting orcs for most of his adult life knew that it could have been much, much worse.

"Among the dead are Herion and Torthagyl," Tarcil went on. "I thought that..."

"I will tell Faedond," Eldacar interrupted him. "He and Torthagyl have always been good friends. And Herion, you say? Eru Ilúvatar." He was silent for a moment, thoughts reeling, before they seized on the thing that most quickly came to mind. "How is Aravir dealing with it?"

Tarcil shrugged, a little helplessly.

"You know him. He doesn't talk much under normal circumstances, and now he speaks even less."

"Not well, then," Eldacar summed up. He hadn't expected anything else, since Aravir was what you would call 'intense', and that even under the best of circumstances. He and Herion had been friends and cousins of a sort, even though Eldacar couldn't remember what the relation had been exactly. "What about Halbarad and Estel, then? They are alive, you say?"

"They are," Tarcil affirmed. "For now, that is. When we left the village this morning, Halbarad seemed to be doing a little better; Hasteth was looking carefully optimistic. Estel, however … the elves are still very worried, or so it seemed to me. There has been no word, but I saw him just after he was found and..." He trailed off, face going even paler, and Eldacar remembered Tarcil's aversion to all things medical and blood-related. "They have been most ill-used, Eldacar. Both of them, but Estel most especially. If he survives this with his wits intact, it shall be a miracle."

And so it might all have been for nothing, Eldacar's darker side whispered quietly in his mind. Cemendur dead, Estel dying and Halbarad only hanging on by a thread – and for that, four more of their men had lost their lives, with one or two more expected to follow. He hardly dared imagine the condition Captain Daervagor would be in, with his son's life hanging in the balance – and the elves of course. Suddenly he was very glad just to be dealing with one of the Firstborn; the mere thought of having to put up with Lord Elrond's sons and Prince Legolas, all of them frantic with worry and fear – that was just too much.

"I see," he told the younger man before he could voice his thoughts, because that would hardly do, considering what Tarcil and all the others had gone through to get to Estel and Halbarad in time. "I rely on you telling me the whole story after I have read the captain's orders. You can get yourself something to eat in the meantime, and please, rest while you can. You look like you haven't slept in days."

Tarcil nodded readily, taking this as the dismissal it was.

"Truth to be told, I haven't. None of us have." He was about to turn away when he remembered something and turned back to look at Eldacar. "And please, accept my condolences as well. I know that you and the commander were friends."

"Thank you," Eldacar said as graciously as he could, a sharp pain taking up residence inside his chest at the other ranger's words. "I think we are … we were." Tarcil gave him a quick little bow and was about to turn away again when he added, almost against his better judgement, "Did he ... did Cemendur die quickly?"

The younger man seemed to freeze for a second, apparently undecided, before he took a deep breath and raised his head to meet Eldacar's eyes.

"No," he said softly. "He did not."

Eldacar exhaled and closed his eyes, unable to say anything, and when he opened them again Tarcil was gone. The tent's entrance flapped in the slight breeze, betraying his exit, but apart from that he might as well have walked right through the very fabric of the tent in the manner of a ghost or wraith. For several seconds, Eldacar could only stare at the gently moving fabric, thoughts scattered and disjointed, before he forcefully pulled himself together and away from thoughts of Cemendur, Herion and the others. There was the captain's letter to consider, and everything that would follow. Tonight, maybe, when the day's work was done and the camp quiet, he could grieve for Cemendur whom he would have called a friend, of sorts, and who hadn't deserved the kind of death Tarcil had hinted at.

Eldacar broke the seal and unfolded the letter. It was indeed as he had thought, no more than a single sheet of parchment that had been folded and sealed. The letters were crisp and even, shining unnaturally black in the dimness of the room. They had not been written by Captain Daervagor, he saw, even though the signature was his. The handwriting looked rather like Haldar's, even though Eldacar hadn't seen it often enough to be sure.

"_To Eldacar, son of Calmacil, commander of the forces stationed by the Argonath, greetings..."_

Eldacar hadn't read more than the first line before the tent-flap was thrown open once more and Nestir's head appeared in the opening. If the healer had looked annoyed before, he looked positively frazzled now.

"Excuse the interruption, _sir_," he began, stressing the last word in a way that told Eldacar quite clearly just who was the second shadow that he could see silhouetted against the light fabric of his tent. "I told him that you were busy, but of course he _argued _that..."

"_He_," a second voice interrupted him, "can speak for himself, thank you very much, Master Healer." The owner of the voice stepped around the ranger, moving slowly and in a way that made it look more like a conscious choice and less than the weakness that Eldacar knew that it really was. "Master Eldacar. Good day."

Eldacar looked at the elf standing before him, for a second not quite knowing what to say. Elven regenerative powers had fully kicked in almost two days ago, enabling Prince Legolas' companion to be up and about when four days ago no one would have thought it possible for him to do anything more strenuous on his own than move from one side of the tent to the other. Still, no one could have overlooked the fact that the silver-haired elf was still very much injured. The leg wound was healing quickly enough now that he had grown stronger, making it possible for him to hobble around on his own, but he still tired very easily and, Eldacar reckoned, possessed about a tenth of his natural strength and resilience. And, of course, there was still the bandage wrapped around his head, completely obscuring one half of his face, including his eye.

Eldacar automatically got to his feet, the letter dangling from his hand. It wasn't only politeness, because he liked Lord Celylith. He was a little strange, but he was clever and witty when the mood took him. When it didn't, of course, he could be even more inscrutable and _elvish _than Prince Legolas. Under different circumstances, Eldacar would have been delighted to see him on his feet, but right now it was yet another complication on a day that seemed intent on piling one problem on top of the other.

"Lord Celylith," he still said politely with a nod of his head, trying very much not to let the elf know how much he wanted him to just turn around and leave him alone. "It is good to see you on your feet. However, as Nestir undoubtedly already informed you, we have just received word from Captain Daervagor and I have much to do."

The elf raised a singed silver eyebrow at that.

"I am sure of it, Master Ranger. It is, however, imperative that I talk to you right away. I, too, have received word from my prince. I would like a word with you, in private, if you please."

Eldacar silently surveyed his guest and his pale face. There was that stubborn set to his mouth that Eldacar had learned meant that he was set on something – the same set that Prince Legolas had sported when he had informed him that he would ride to join the others in the village to help find Estel, and the captain and Eldacar and the rest of the rangers could go hang for all he cared –, and he knew that further discussion would be extremely futile. A good thing he was a reasonable man, then.

"Very well," he gave in graciously and sat down again, motioning the elf to do the same. The elf looked from him to the wooden stool and back before all but sauntering closer. He very slowly and carefully sat down, like a cat that clearly wanted to convey the fact that it moving had nothing at all to do with the dog running towards it. "Nestir," he went on, "if you would excuse us for a moment."

Nestir narrowed his eyes at him, threw him a glare that clearly accused him of complicity in unspeakable elven conspiracies, and left the tent with an almost inaudible huff. Eldacar suddenly felt for Tarcil, should Nestir get his hands on him and discover that the young ranger sported a hastily-wrapped injury.

"As you can see," Eldacar went on, almost as soon as Nestir had left the room, "I didn't even have the chance to read the captain's orders."

"Oh, I will gladly wait," the elf offered magnanimously. "It is I who is intruding, after all. Please, take your time."

Eldacar clenched his teeth against a sudden rush of annoyance and returned his attention to the letter. _To Eldacar, son of Calmacil, greetings... _It took him only a few moments to read the short recapitulation of the rescue; Cemendur's death and funeral were only mentioned in a single sentence. Eldacar didn't hold it against the captain; everybody knew that Captain Daervagor and the commander had been friends, and the few words describing Cemendur's death were enough to convey the other man's pain and grief. The captain went on to describe the manpower and equipment lost during the rescue operation and gave a quick description of the tactical situation of the village. Prepared by Tarcil's words as he was, nothing he read shocked Eldacar – until he reached the last quarter of the message. Eldacar read the words once, decided that he must have misread them, started again at the beginning of the last paragraph, repeated the process and then decided that either he or the captain must be going mad. Deciding to give the letter a last chance, he scanned the paragraph again, but the words stubbornly refused to change their meaning.

Eldacar raised his eyes to see Lord Celylith quietly surveying him, his one visible dark-blue eye knowing and calm.

"I don't understand, my lord," he said, unashamed of his confusion. "What is the meaning of this?"

"If you were to tell me just what it is Daervagor let you know, I am sure I could oblige you."

Eldacar thought about reminding the elf of the captain's rank, but decided against it. He might as well bang his head against a wall or a tent pole for all the good it would do him.

"My lord," he began instead, aiming for politeness or at least a sort of desperate patience, "I do not have the time to play games. Surely Prince Legolas informed you of the rescue?"

The elf raised a hand as if in answer, revealing a piece of parchment. Eldacar tried not to feel resentful that the elf's letter was considerably longer than his own, and instead concentrated on the flowing tengwar letters. His eyes only caught a few words, but those refused to make any sense at all. The tehtar symbols were placed in a way that seemed to be making even less sense. The words might as well have been Black Speech for all that Eldacar knew.

"It is written in a more obscure Silvan dialect of Mirkwood," the elf explained, noticing his look. "And the script is known only to my prince, myself and very few others, none of whom should be anywhere close to the Angle." He smiled in a way that failed to convey any humour at all. "Let's call it an added safety measure."

Eldacar tried to decide if he should feel embarrassed about having been caught trying to read the other's message before he decided against it. He had more important things to worry about, like the question just why Prince Legolas thought it necessary to encrypt a simple message in such a way.

"Call it what you like, my lord," he said a little more brusquely than he'd wanted to. "I trust that in there is the news that Halbarad and Estel have been found, and that Cemendur is dead?"

"Indeed it is." The elf smiled for real this time, the sort of dazzling smile that made you forget his weakness and injuries and made you think of the rising sun, or maybe rather the moon, considering his colouring. "And while I am sorry about Commander Cemendur's death, I cannot describe the joy that the news of Halbarad's and Estel's recovery gives me."

Eldacar believed him. Nobody could fake a smile like that.

"Did it say anything about their condition?"

The smile faltered and died a quick death, and the silver-haired elf shook his head, a small frown appearing between his left eyebrow and the edge of the bandage.

"Nothing specific, I fear. My prince only writes that Estel and Halbarad have been treated very ill indeed, and that Lord Elrond's sons are still very much worried. Nothing more."

Eldacar was silent for a moment. Both of them knew what that kind of description likely meant.

"I am sorry to hear it. I must, however, ask of you to explain to me just why we are to pack up everything, move you, Nestir and two guards to a more easily defended camp and then join the captain in the village."

"Those are your orders?" the elf asked, the one blue eye entirely guileless. It was not a very convincing look. "I couldn't possibly say."

Eldacar gave the cryptic letter a very pointed look.

"Couldn't you now. How interesting."

"I am hardly privy to your captain's thoughts, Master Ranger, or to my prince's." At least the last part was a bold-faced lie, Eldacar thought to himself crossly. "All I know is that the village's security has been severely compromised and that they need all the warriors they can get."

The next thing being considerably compromised would be his patience, Eldacar quickly decided.

"But that is not all, my lord. Why are we to move there in all this haste and abandon what has been our main camp for over a year?"

"How would I know, Master Ranger?" the elf asked back. "I know little about your people's ways and tactics."

"My lord..."

"Then let it be said," the elf interrupted him, "that my prince hinted at another strike against the orcs that will require all the manpower Daervagor," _Captain _Daervagor, Eldacar thought crossly, "can get. I know not the particulars, but it seems that they have an idea where the orcs might be hiding."

Eldacar leaned back in his folding chair and studied the even-faced elf in front of him. If he had been a less diplomatic or a less sane man, he would have called the elf a liar.

"And this is truly all you know?"

The elf cocked his eyebrow and winced at the movement.

"Are you calling me a liar, westman?" he asked, neatly mirroring his own thoughts.

"I would not do you or your realm the discourtesy," Eldacar answered smoothly. "I would not call it lying anyway. I would rather say it is a sort of selective recounting of the truth."

Lord Celylith looked at him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"That is rather like two sides of the same coin, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically. "But I will answer your question. What I just told you is all I can tell you."

"All you can tell me, all you will tell me, or all you have been allowed to tell me?"

This time, the elf smiled outright.

"Choose whichever makes you happy, Master Ranger."

"None of them do," Eldacar muttered to himself. This was infuriating. The elf knew more, a lot more if not all, and he simply wouldn't tell him.

"I can understand that, and I sympathise." The elf looked at him seriously and, Eldacar thought, just a little bit pityingly. "I, however, cannot help you further." The smile disappeared from his face and he added, "Does it matter, really? You have your orders – or do you doubt their veracity?"

"No," Eldacar answered immediately. "I don't. The message is written in Haldar's hand, and it bears the captain's seal and his signature. It is genuine. It just … doesn't explain much. Or anything, really."

_And you won't either_, he added silently. The elf shrugged eloquently, apparently a commentary on the confused nature of life in general, and began to roll up the message and fasten a leather cord around it which sported an elaborate series of little knots. Another message, Eldacar wondered, or maybe just an added means of authentication?

"The captain is not one to explain things more often than he needs to, or so it seems to me," the elf said off-handedly as he fastened the leather cord. "I daresay everything will be explained once we reach the village."

A nice way of saying 'Stop thinking and do as you're told', Eldacar thought to himself. He was already in the process of deciding which should be done in what order – they would have to take down all the tents, and the corral for the horses, and bury everything they couldn't carry, and leave runes to let other rangers know that they had moved and where – when he realised what the elf had just said. He looked up to meet the gaze of an innocent dark-blue eye that appraised him coolly.

"Excuse me, my lord," he began, "but did you say 'we'?"

"Yes," a voice from the back of the tent chimed in. "Did he say 'we'?"

Eldacar rolled his eyes as he motioned for Nestir to enter the tent, and the healer did so, letting the tent-flap fall into place behind him with a quick, angry movement of his wrist. He shot the younger man a look promising that they would be talking about this later, a look that Nestir either did not notice or ignored.

"Have you been eavesdropping, Nestir? I do not think that I must remind you how very unbecoming of a ranger such behaviour is."

"I did not eavesdrop," the younger ranger protested. "I just happened to walk past your tent in the exact same moment that _he_," he looked at the completely unaffected elf in front of him, "mentioned that little plan of his. Naturally, I had to make sure, because this kind of behaviour clearly is a sign of a previously undiagnosed head injury."

The elf cocked his head in amusement and slowly got to his feet, wavering slightly once he was standing but quickly catching himself.

"Strangely enough, you are not the first to mention that possibility, Master Healer."

"And I daresay I won't be the last," Nestir shot back. Eldacar gave him a pointed look and cleared his throat. "Oh, pardon me," Nestir added. "I daresay I won't be the last, my lord."

"I thank you for your concern," Lord Celylith went on as if the healer hadn't even spoken. "But I have long been of age, both in the eyes of my people and yours, and I know very well what I am doing."

"I seriously doubt that," Nestir told him, clearly trying to remain patient. "You are very weak, Master Elf, and still must take quite a varied range of medicines to aid your recovery. Any strenuous activity might mean a relapse. I do not use these words lightly, my lord. It is imperative that you rest, lest your wounds worsen and set back the healing process, especially of your facial wounds. It could mean permanent scarring or the loss of your eyesight. I cannot stress this enough."

"I am aware of that, Master Nestir," the elf said calmly, even though Eldacar thought he saw him pale even more. There was that firm set to his mouth again, though, and the elf added, "I must, however, ask of you, Master Eldacar, that you disregard that specific part of your orders and take Master Nestir and me with you. I am sure Lord Elrond's sons and Mistress Hasteth will be very glad of his help. Further splitting up our group would serve no one in the first place."

Nestir began to protest, but Eldacar quickly raised a hand to quiet him. It worked, which surprised Eldacar exceedingly.

"You wish me to disregard Captain Daervagor's orders?" he repeated, allowing the full force of his incredulity to shine through. "His _direct orders _that he took the trouble to send to me, _in writing_, urging me to follow them with all haste?" He gave a small, derisive laugh. "Surely you are joking."

"I am not." The elf shook his head. "I ask to accompany you."

Nestir was uncharacteristically quiet. Eldacar looked at the elf and narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Is this another thing that your prince let you know in that secret message of his?"

For a moment, the elf looked torn, but then he shook his head slowly.

"No," he admitted. "It is not. He orders me to remain here with Nestir, under guard, while you and the rest of the men join the others in the village."

That was not the only thing he had been ordered to do, Eldacar thought as annoyance rose once more, but he knew that further probing would be useless.

"So you would disobey your prince?" he asked, trying to feel more surprise than he actually did.

"I would," the elf affirmed. "Regretfully and most respectfully, of course."

"I see," Eldacar said. "Why?"

"Because he is the crown prince of Mirkwood and I am one of her captains," the silver-haired elf explained easily. "I swore an oath to obey him."

"That is not what I wished to know," Eldacar said impatiently. "I meant..."

"I know what you meant, Master Ranger," Lord Celylith interrupted him softly. He took a breath, clearly trying to decide how best to put this, and continued. "While it is true that I have been a captain of Mirkwood for more than one and a half millennia and thus swore an oath to protect the prince, I also made another oath, long before I even reached the age of majority. I swore, to myself and his father, to protect him as well as I am able – with my life, if need be. These two oaths clash sometimes, but I know which one I hold more dear."

"I do not wish to insult you, my lord," Nestir said, sounding for once very calm. "But I find it highly doubtful that you will be able to protect anyone for the next few weeks, including yourself."

"Maybe. Maybe not," the elf admitted in an off-handed way that seemed to proclaim his conviction that, eventually, reality would fall in line with his wishes. "However, I see no reason not to find out." His voice grew softer as he added, "And I would never forgive myself if something did happen and I did nothing to try and stop it."

Eldacar looked at the stubborn set to the elf's jaw and weighed his desire not to spend any more time arguing against how he knew the captain and the elf prince would react when they heard that he had allowed Lord Celylith to accompany them. Respect for his superiors finally won out over the wish for peace and quiet.

"I am sorry, Master Elf," he told the elf in front of him, suddenly rather glad that the desk was between him and his guest. "But I cannot disregard Captain Daervagor's orders without very good reason. I understand your desire to be of use to your prince and your friends, truly, I do, but..."

"You understand nothing, _dúnadan_," the elf interrupted him, dark-blue eye flashing. "Legolas is my prince, the only son of my liege lord. I am honour-bound to serve him to the very best of my abilities. I would do anything to help and protect him, even if he were no more than that." He took a step closer to Eldacar until mere inches separated him from the desk piled high with papers. "But he is. He is my friend, the best friend I've ever had. He is my brother in everything but in blood. Whatever I can give that will see him safe and happy, I will grant it gladly."

"I do understand, Lord Celylith," Eldacar interjected once more. "Forgive me for saying it, but is is not only about what you want."

"No, indeed it is not," the other agreed. "My wishes are secondary. My duty, however, is not. He is my future king and my friend. My duty is to him, and always will be. I am aware of the fact that he is not going to be happy about this..."

"That is a mild way of putting it, my lord."

"Most likely," the elf allowed. "Yet I will not be swayed on this. I would much rather chance his wrath than his death. He ordered me to stay behind because he is worried about me, I know this, but I am no longer at death's door. Keeping me here with Master Nestir and two guards would serve no purpose, not when both warriors and healers are urgently needed at the village."

"I will admit this," Nestir spoke up. "But it would serve a purpose, Master Elf. It would allow you to recover and not make you risk your life merely by journeying to the village."

"And how would I recover knowing that my prince and my other friends will most likely place themselves in danger very soon?" He turned to look at Eldacar, faint pleading now in his eyes. "Come now, Master Eldacar. We both know that whatever will happen, will happen in the village and not here. I cannot in good conscience leave them to fend for themselves."

Eldacar looked back at him, feeling how his firm conviction was beginning to falter.

"Yet you expect us to leave you, an honoured guest we promised to protect, to fend for yourself."

"No, I do not expect it." The elf shook his head. "I _ask_ it of you. Please, Master Ranger, do not make this harder than it has to be. I would much rather accompany you with your approval, but know this: If you wish me to stay here, you will have to tie me up and set a guard on me, because I will not remain behind willingly. I will go and join my prince, whatever you have to say about it, and I would advise you not to get in my way."

Eldacar looked at the elf and the steely determination that seemed all the fiercer for his pale face and slumped body, and gave up. He knew that the elf spoke the truth and that he would have to tie him to a tree to prevent him from accompanying them, and the captain had said nothing about holding captive a captain of the Elvenking. And anyway, he asked himself almost angrily, just what had Captain Daervagor thought would happen when he had left them alone with a wood-elf of all people, and one sporting such overprotective tendencies?

"Very well," he agreed with as much grace as possible. "I bow to the inevitable. But Nestir will be at your side during the entire trip, and if you faint and fall off your horse, I refuse to be held responsible."

"Wood-elves do not _faint_, Master Ranger."

"They do when they are being stubborn and refuse to take their pain medication," Nestir said in the sort of sickly-sweet tone of voice that Eldacar knew meant nothing good. "I have seen it happen."

The elf turned to glare at the healer, and before the two of them could get into an epic staring contest, Eldacar hurriedly added, "We will need at least half a day to pack up the camp, Master Elf, and I will not risk travelling at night. We will leave tomorrow morning at first light, so I urge you to get as much rest as you can before that."

Nestir forcibly unclenched his jaw and levelled a dark stare at his patient.

"As you are apparently intent on killing yourself, I will come by your tent in a few minutes and bring you something to help you rest. And I would _very strongly _recommend you take it, if you wish to make it through the journey tomorrow."

"But of course." Now that he had won, the elf was clearly willing to be gracious.

"Very good," Eldacar said, feeling suddenly very tired. "I will send someone later to help pack up your things and whatever your companions left behind."

"Thank you." The elf gave him a nod. He looked even paler than before, and there were deep lines of pain around his visible eye and on his forehead. "If you would excuse me now, I think I will follow your advice." He was about to turn around but stopped, levelling that calm, dark-blue stare at Eldacar. "I thank you, Master Ranger."

Eldacar smiled wryly and sighed.

"Thanks are hardly applicable, my lord. I am old enough to know that getting in your way would be nothing but foolishness."

The stare turned harder.

"Yes," the elf agreed softly. "It would."

Eldacar nodded in agreement, refusing to be intimidated. The elf gave him a quick bow that very much looked like it all but brought him to his knees, but managed to recover and turned around to leave. He was already stiffly grasping the tent-flap when he seemed to remember something, and he turned back around, left hand firmly grasping the back of a nearby chair in support.

"Oh, and Master Eldacar? Somebody please get my bat."

He gave them a friendly nod and limped out of the tent. Eldacar listened to the soft sounds of the elf laboriously making his way past the main fireplace towards his own tent before he turned to look at Nestir, an eyebrow raised high.

"His bat?"

Nestir bowed his head, lifted one hand to rub the back of his neck and gave a tired sigh.

"Don't ask. Just … really, just don't."

**TBC...  
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_dúnedain (Sindarin) (pl.) - 'Men of the West', rangers  
athelas (S.) - also called Kingsfoil, a healing herb  
ion Imladris (S.) - son (of) Rivendell  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
yén (S.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 years  
dúnadan (S.) (sg.) - 'Man of the West', ranger_

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**_**So, as I said, ANGST. And more angst. But come on, you know you love it. *g* And, as I said, they have a PLAN. It's Elrohir's plan, so I guess there is the vague chance that it won't be as much of a disaster as their plans usually are, but ... well. I wouldn't bet on it. *g* Next chapter, we have the asked-for reunion of Halbarad and Daervagor – because, yes, I didn't have the heart to let him be unconscious for very much longer -, and more of Celylith, who was very right when he assumed that Legolas would not be amused about his accompanying Eldacar & Co. Also, we find out how fine Aragorn is. Have a wild guess. Thank you for your patience and support!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**My apologies to d and I for not including them in the review replies. For that to happen, I need you either to log in before leaving a review or, if you prefer to review anonymously, to leave me an email address. Because that's unfortunately how FF-net now seems to work. To all those who did review, thank you!**


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